A Chicago Story
by persephonesfolly
Summary: Chicago 1912, a city rife with crime and secret societies, and Dr. Carlisle Cullen finds himself caught up in one of them.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

(Chicago 1912)

"If the Irish want home rule that much they should go back to Ireland and stop picking the pocketbooks of their Irish brethren here. Life is hard enough in America without bringing the troubles of the old country here," I heard myself saying.

It was not the most politic route to take, considering that the tavern was full of Irishmen. I forced my thoughts back to the woman whose husband spent his pay on whisky and contributions to the Fenian society devoted to freeing Ireland from England. Unable to pay for the medicine I'd proscribed, the woman died, leaving behind three children to the indifferent care of her drunken husband.

"Let Ireland go to the devil, and the Fenians with them," I said loudly.

Pushing my untouched glass away, I rose from the bar, tipped my hat curtly to the scowling barkeep, and strode out the door.

It was a relief to be out in the clear evening air, away from the smoke and stench of cheap liquor-sodden humanity in such close quarters. I paused in the street outside, gazing up at the night sky as I contemplated my next move. It was my night off work at the hospital. I didn't usually walk about in the poorest area of town where policemen were few and far between. Not that one such as I had much to fear from the miscreant population of Chicago. I enjoyed the crisp night air a moment longer, then set off walking east towards Goose Island, that odd wedge of land bordered by canals.

I hadn't been walking long before I heard them. Four, no five sets of footsteps. I was being followed. I quickened my pace as much as I could without creating surprise or speculation from the innocent humans I passed on the street. Instead of transferring their attention to less fleet prey, my pursuers continued to follow, breaking into a jog to keep up.

Ducking down an alley redolent with rotting garbage and human waste, I held my breath until I reached the other side. The smell didn't cause the men following me to pause in their pursuit. By the time they reached the end of the alley, I was already across the next street. Before me stood a row of abandoned factories, their broken windows gaping portals in the red brick walls. The windows were all on the second stories, too high to jump without exciting suspicion as to my true nature. The lingering odor revealed that one of them had been a tannery. I made my way toward it just as a shout from behind me alerted me to the fact that I'd been spotted. The five sets of footsteps broke into a run. If I'd been a mere human, I'd have been terrified at the sound.

Smiling grimly I darted around the side of the old tannery, but all I saw was solid brick. The building next to it, however, showed a gap where a wooden side door lay in pieces from some past act of vandalism. I plunged through it, ignoring the splinters that burst forth at my passage.

Ruined machinery coated in dust confronted me silently. A quick glance about showed me that the only other exit was blocked by fallen masonry from the floor above, and as in the other buildings there were no windows on the ground floor. An iron staircase led to the upper floors. With no other option, I mounted the steps and headed upwards. The iron squealed under my weight but held. Rodents scurried furtively below at the sound of my ascent. The crack of breaking wood informed me that someone was following me into the building.

"I've got him!" a man's voice yelled hoarsely. "Go around the back, make sure he doesn't get out the rear."

As if I could without displacing half a ton of fallen brick and mortar. Ignoring his words, I continued up the stairs, passing four landings without pause until I reached the fifth and last. A narrow hall terminated in a ladder set into the wall at the far end. Closed doors on either side of the hall did not tempt me. Enclosed spaces were traps in a pursuit. I chose the ladder. I grabbed onto the rusty bars set into the wall and climbed. At the top was a trapdoor. A quick push with my hand and it flew off its hinges. It slid across the rooftop, scraping along the surface until it came to rest against a balustrade, a sort of low wall surrounding the perimeter of the flat roof.

Climbing out on top, I stood and surveyed the area. Some time ago the owner of the factory had stored boxes and barrels of some sort of millinery materials up here. Mice and rats were nesting in the remains of cotton and wool scraps, and the rotted wood of the containers had collapsed in on themselves, leaving heaps of slats and rusted circlets of iron that had once banded barrels in their proper shape. Apart from the sad remains of leftover supplies, the roof was empty, offering no cover at all.

Using my vampiric speed, I darted quickly to the edge and saw a stone quay with the inky water of the Goose Island canal beside it. Glancing to my left and right, I saw tall buildings on either side, far taller than the one on which I stood. Leaping up to either roof was out of the question, for I could hear the other men milling around below. If any of them were to glance up and see my superhuman leap, the Volturi's cardinal rule would be violated. Any other vampire would simply kill the lot of them and throw their bodies in the canal.

I was not any other vampire.

I'd leaned too far over the wall. A man on the quayside below pointed and shouted. I'd been seen.

Fingers scrabbled on the rooftop. There was a grunt as the man who'd followed me into the building lifted himself off the ladder and onto the roof.

Four faces stared up at me from below as I awaited my nemesis.

Drawing a deep breath in human fashion, I turned to face him.

Piercing brown eyes glared out at me from under a dark green cloth hat. He smelled of sweat, whiskey, and tobacco. His tweed jacket and trousers were nondescript and a little worn at the elbows and knees. A dirty grey neckcloth lay askew against his open collared shirt.

I remained still as he came near enough to touch. He regarded me silently for a moment, chest heaving. It was a long climb to the roof.

"British loving!" he shouted as he came at me suddenly, shoving hard against my chest with both palms square against my torso.

The back of my legs caught against the low wall and I was falling down, down, past the dark factory windows, black smears in a red wall.

The most difficult thing about it was keeping my body relaxed and quelling my natural instinct to twist about and land in a crouch. If I walked away unscathed from a fall from a six story building my secret would be out.

I landed hard on my back. I felt the rough stone of the quay crack a bit under me, but the loud 'thump' of my landing masked it. My back and legs ended up crookedly splayed. I kept them as they were when I hit the ground. Allowing my head to loll to the side, I kept my eyes open, staring blankly without expression at the back wall of the factory a few yards away.

Footsteps drew near. A pair of black work boots, scuffed and scratched beneath heavy cotton trousers blocked my view of the wall. I remained still and waited.

"He's done for," the voice belonging to the work boots proclaimed.

Another of the men nudged at my leg with his toe. I kept my limbs relaxed and allowed my leg to move when he pushed at it.

"Best be sure," another said.

The work boots moved back out of my line of sight, deferring to a pair of plaid coated legs that knelt in front of my face. A large palm pressed against my mouth, feeling for breath that never came. He kept his hand over my lips for over a minute.

"Dead," a gruff voice pronounced. "He's already cooling."

The hand was removed and the man stood.

"World's well rid of that lot," muttered a soft tenor voice I hadn't heard before.

He sounded younger than his companions. Trying to impress them, perhaps? The others growled their agreement.

"Altamont did good." The last voice said with grim approval.

"Aye, that he did," came the gruff voice again. All spoke with thick Irish brogues.

Footsteps drew near, coming from the direction of the factory building. He walked unhurriedly, his heart just beginning to return to a normal beat after the exertion of climbing back down five flights. The others waited for him in silence, the faint scuffing of shoes on concrete alerting me that they'd turned to watch his approach. I wondered what their expressions were like. How did one greet a murderer?

"So we're square, then?" my 'killer' Altamont asked sharply.

"You're in," work boots agreed.

"Tis good to hear," he answered, the light-hearted satisfaction in his voice an odd contrast to the gravity of the situation.

"What about him?" the tenor asked as I felt another nudge at my leg.

"Leave him for the rats," work boots suggested. "Canal rats'll strip a man to bones in days."

"No, throw him in the canal," the gruff one stated with an air of authority.

"Whatever you like," Altamont answered.

In short order I felt sinewy arms coming under my shoulders and wrapping around my chest from behind as the unmistakable odor of the man who'd shoved me from the roof filled my nostrils. He began to drag me towards the canal. I let my chin sag against my collarbone, and closed my eyes. I could only see his face now in that instant of memory before he'd laid hands on me and pushed.

"Here, let me help," one of the Irishmen prefaced before grabbing my legs. He wheezed in a breath as he hefted my limbs.

"He's a heavy one, that he is."

I heard a derisive snort from one of the others. It was unfair, as I knew very well that vampires were heavier than humans. The change that increased our physical beauty also gave us a more efficient musculature with denser, more compact tissue, hence our near impenetrable skin.

"Just heave him over the side and stop complaining," work boots growled.

"Aye," came the sullen response.

Again I was falling, a shorter distance this time, into the canal. The water splashed beneath me then closed over me as I sank. My back landed against timber, the crumbled remains of a loading dock. I opened my eyes and stared up through the water. I was only three or four feet below the surface. Two pale ovals of faces stared down at me, disfigured by the rippling water. After a moment, they disappeared.

I waited, immobile. Water obscures all but the loudest noises, even to one with enhanced hearing. I had no way of knowing if they lingered at the canal's edge to talk or if they'd gone. Minutes passed. I began counting seconds to pass the time.

An hour passed.

Then a face appeared above me, and a hand extended out towards the water that covered me.

I sat up, gathered my feet beneath me on the uneven timbers, and jumped. I passed by the unspoken invitation of the hand, and landed on the quayside in a crouch.

Water immediately began to pool under me, turning the concrete from grey to black. I stood, and so did he.

Familiar brown eyes regarded me searchingly from beneath a dark green cap.

"My apologies about the dunking, Cullen," he said, thrusting his hand out again.

"Not at all," I returned, taking his hand to shake it firmly. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Holmes."

To Be Continued…

A/N: Leave a review and let me know if you think the story is worth continuing.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

(Chicago 1912)

"Thank you, Cullen," said Holmes.

He'd thrown himself into the armchair next to the fire I'd lit for him in my hearth, and was gazing pensively at a glass of my brandy. I kept the brandy on hand for visitors, as it would look suspicious if I'd nothing to offer guests. I don't indulge in liquor for obvious reasons. I bought this particular brandy because the color of it pleased me.

After returning to my flat, I'd divested myself of the sodden clothing, noting ruefully that the canal's filth had likely ruined them, for I doubted the stains would ever come out. I changed and joined Homes in my sitting room.

"If there's anything else I can do, you have but to ask," I answered, drawing the sash of my quilted dressing gown tightly around my waist as I walked up to the fire.

I don't feel cold, not really. I'm aware of changes in temperature, but they cause no discomfort. However, I've played the part of a normal human being for so long that it is second nature to pretend to enjoy a fire's warmth on a chill evening.

Holmes leaned forward to place his glass on the side table. I saw the tiredness etched on his face. There were wrinkles creasing the skin near his eyes, and the whiskers of at least three days' growth were shot through with grey. It was two decades since I'd first made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes in London. He had to be near sixty now, though his heart beat as soundly as a bell, and I could personally attest to the strength in his arms. There weren't many men of sixty odd years who could drag my inert weight across to a canal without having to stop and rest.

"I'm quite alright you know." Holmes reproved me mildly, and I realized I'd been staring.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

I'd forgotten how astute an observer Holmes was. It didn't take a mind reader to see the concern in my eyes.

"Not at all. You were the one shoved off a building and thrown into a canal. By rights I should be inquiring about your health, though I know it's unnecessary."

We shared a laugh and my embarrassment disappeared. It was good to be once again in the company of a man around whom I did not need to dissemble.

"I take it your plan worked?"

Moving back from the hearth I sat down in the armchair that flanked the side table set before the fire.

"Better than I expected. The gang believe I'm willing to kill for the cause, and cold-hearted enough to murder an innocent stranger who happened to catch their eye, merely to pass their initiation. It's a good thing I was able to get the stockyard boss they meant for me to kill out of town today. Brimley is newly wed with a child on the way."

"Monstrous," I murmured disapprovingly, thinking of the man's nearly bereaved wife.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed. "This particular gang is one of the most vicious criminal organizations I've ever seen. Without your help I never could have infiltrated them, for I could not bring myself to kill an innocent, not even for an investigation as important as this one."

His gaze darkened and turned inward.

"As important as this one?" I repeated inquiringly.

I didn't want to pry, but I was curious. Holmes had popped up at the hospital where I worked. He was pretending to be an Irish immigrant named Seamus Altamont who came in complaining of a sore knee. I recognized him by his scent, despite his grizzled features and rough clothing, and took him to a semi-private examining room. There he'd asked for my help, requesting that I play the part of a murder victim. Luckily I had the next evening off so we'd set up the scene together, choosing an out of the way building near the canal where there wouldn't be any chance passersby. I went to the tavern where Holmes was meeting his associates and made inflammatory remarks, then led the gang to the building as planned. I hadn't asked Holmes why it was so important for him to become a part of an Irish streetgang.

"Mycroft asked me to look into it."

Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's older brother who worked for the British government in intelligence gathering. The case was a weighty one indeed if he were involved.

"My brother can be most persuasive when he wants to be," Holmes continued. "I was sent to investigate links between Irish subversive activity here and certain events back home. So far I've witnessed many incidents of petty crime, but I am not trusted enough to learn the inner workings of the gang. Now perhaps that will change."

He picked up his glass of brandy, drained it, and set it gently on the table. As he stood, he resumed the persona of Seamus Altamont. A tight wariness settled into his eyes and mouth. The dark green cloth hat seemed a habitual feature, rather than a mere prop. He stood like a laborer, weight centered, back slightly bowed from hard work, but steady on his feet. Here was a man awaiting the next bout of labor or a brawl, certain of his ability to do both, yet not wanting either.

"Well me boyo, tis hoping this is the last ye'll see of me for a bit."

The Irish accent flowed naturally off Holmes' tongue as he took a step away from the chair.

I nodded my appreciation of the change as I stood politely to see him off, and Holmes threw me a charming and utterly Gaelic grin as he moved toward the door.

"Evening, doc," he said as he let himself out.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes," I said softly to the closing door.

I didn't expect to see any more of Sherlock Holmes after that night. He'd made it clear from the outset that my participation in his charade was supposed to be a one time incident. He'd asked my help out of desperation. It wasn't as if I, like he, could pass for an Irishman, and even had I wanted to quit my job at the hospital to join Holmes' investigation, I was literally dead to the gang he'd infiltrated. Holmes couldn't afford to be seen with me.

Weeks passed and I resumed my duties at the hospital with only the slightest nostalgia for my brief foray into Holmes' world. Working at a busy Chicago hospital kept my nights filled with endless diversity. Each new case was a puzzle to solve, a life's drama unfolding. The reward of helping someone was a sense of satisfaction unmatched by anything else. To heal instead of kill, to quash my baser instincts in order to bring about something good in this world, that is why I exist.

There is heartbreak in it as well. Some wounds are too severe, some illnesses resistant to all efforts, and there were many times when all I could do was sit with a dying patient and offer what comfort I could. Simply touching a shoulder, or gazing encouragingly into the eyes of a human slipping from life to death could make all the difference to them. If there is one thing humans dread, it is dying alone.

After an ordinary night at work near the end of my shift, Holmes' world came crashing back into my neatly ordered existence.

Dr. Gless, who was supposed to take over for me, was snoring away at the desk where interns wrote up reports. Thankfully the desk had a thick blotter, for Gless tended to drool in his sleep. I hadn't the heart to wake the poor man, and since dawn was still over an hour away, I kept working. There were always patients with early shifts at the factories who'd stop in before work. Most factories began their days very early.

A ward nurse led me to one of the first floor examining rooms where a patient awaited.

"She asked for you in particular, Dr. Cullen," Mrs. Stevens said.

She was far too professional to roll her eyes, but resigned amusement and a hint of disapproval usually reserved for her nurses tinged her voice.

"Not by name, mind you," she continued. "She described you perfectly."

"Did she?"

Mrs. Stevens did much to keep the younger, impressionable nurses at bay. She had a strict policy against inter-staff fraternization, and discouraged much of the romantic nonsense I'd come to expect from young nurses. I valued Mrs. Stevens as both a colleague and an ally.

Mrs. Stevens' starched white headdress fluttered behind her as she stepped smartly to one of the curtains dividing the ward and drew it back to allow me to enter. I walked into the enclosed 'room'. It was little more than a manufactured space of curtains with only one solid brick wall with a window at the back. There was room for a bed with a bureau for medical supplies. On the bed sat a young woman with bright red curly hair, dressed in a nondescript grey skirt and white collared blouse in a low "V" under a red shawl.

"Miss Dooley to see you, doctor," the nurse announced, then drew back the curtain across the entrance to give us some privacy for the examination.

"What seems to be the trouble?" I asked.

The girl threw off her shawl and began to describe her symptoms.

"It's my heart, doctor. It beats so fast at times, I sure I don't know what to do." A faint lilt of an accent proclaimed Miss Dooley's Irish heritage.

Heart palpitations? At her age and look of robust health? Taking my stethoscope out of my jacket pocket, I placed it against her chest and listened to the steady 'lub/dub'. I also listened to the blood flowing unobstructed throughout her whole body. There was no sound of valve deformity, blockage, or weakness in the blood vessels. Her circulatory system functioned perfectly, as designed. I removed the unnecessary stethoscope.

"I can't catch my breath when I stand up," she volunteered. "My bones ache something fierce too, especially when it's cold of a morning."

Large green eyes regarded me innocently, as she arched her back, subtly thrusting her chest forward.

Looking deeply into her eyes, I saw a smudge of black on the corner of her left eyelid. She'd worn makeup recently, and washed it off hurriedly.

"What is your profession, Miss Dooley?"

She paused.

"I work as a seamstress, in a factory."

I nodded, though I knew it wasn't true. She had none of the rough hands and callouses of one who worked carrying bolts of cloth and baskets of piecework while slaving away at a sewing machine running fabric through it all day long. I'd treated seamstresses before.

She was either a fallen woman or some sort of performer on stage or in music halls. I wanted to tell her that neither profession mattered to me. I would help anyone who asked, as I'd sworn to do when I graduated from medical school, and I'd graduated several times in order to keep my medical knowledge current. If Miss Dooley felt the need to keep her profession a secret out of embarrassment, I'd honor her wishes.

As I mused over her lie, she began to speak.

"You're quite the slave to habit, aren't you, doctor?" she asked unexpectedly, tilting her face up to gaze at me.

"What do you mean?"

"You usually leave the hospital the same time each morning at the crack 'o dawn, but not today. I know, I've seen you before," she confided archly, making it sound as though noticing me was a compliment.

"I suppose I am predictable."

Ignoring her overtures was easy, I'd had plenty of practice in the past staving off the attentions of young women.

"Aren't you lonely, working all night long? Have you any kin nearby? Brothers or sisters, maybe?"

Sighing inwardly I drew myself up and gave as offputting a response as I could.

"Miss Dooley, I am your doctor. If you have any medical questions I would be more than happy to answer them. Now let's continue."

I checked her pulse, examined her eyes, nose, and throat and found nothing out of the ordinary. Throughout the examination she tried to draw me out, but I gave only noncommittal responses, convinced that she'd come to the hospital merely to flirt, not because she was actually ill. When she became more blatant about it, brushing her chest 'accidentally' against my arm, I'd had enough.

Stepping away from the bed, I told her I'd found nothing wrong with her and suggested she simply get more rest.

"Sure thing, doctor. And will you come and check on me? I'd make it worth your while."

From the way she lifted her skirts unnecessarily high as she moved them out of the way so she could slide off the bed, there was little doubt as to how she was offering to pay for a house call.

"Good Day, Miss Dooley," I said expressionlessly.

She sighed regretfully, grabbed her shawl from off the bed, and left.

I checked on , shaking him gently into wakefulness to let him know it was time to start his shift. I neglected to tell him I'd let him sleep an extra hour, and I hoped Mrs. Stevens would keep mum about it too. As I gathered my belongings, I noticed my stethoscope was missing so I retraced my steps to the examining room where I'd last used it on Miss Dooley.

As I thought of her, I heard her voice, faintly. I looked around the empty examining room and saw that it was coming from the other side of the window to the alley outside. Curious, I walked over and leaned my ear against the pane. I didn't fear being seen for the window was made of frosted glass. It let in light but preserved the modesty of the patients within.

"I told you, he wouldn't talk to me about nothin'" Miss Dooley's accent was thicker now, her voice less refined than it had been in the examining room.

"Don't you give me that, Bridgit, my girl. Have you gone soft on him?"

She tsked angrily. "Not likely. He's not payin' me," she added pointedly.

I could just see the grey of her skirt and a bit of red shawl as she was standing a ways down the alley and not right in front of the window. The frosting on the glass did little to impede my eyesight, for my sight as well as my hearing was enhanced when I became a vampire.

The man's voice answering her was somehow familiar.

"You'll get your pay when I get my answers, not before."

"And when will that be, since he's not in a chatty mood? I did my best, it's not like you could do better."

She turned away from him sulkily. When she stepped aside, I saw the trouser legs and work boots of the man she'd spoken to. Squinting, I saw through the glass that they were black work boots, scuffed and scratched in a pattern I'd seen before. It was one of the men who'd told Holmes to kill me.

Questions raced through my mind. Why was he here? Why now? How had he found me and what had the woman to do with it? Was Holmes safe? I swallowed back venom and forced myself to calm down. The presence of venom in my mouth was as close to a human fight or flight response as I could get, and it let me know that I was dangerously close to losing control.

"My way leaves marks," said the man in the work boots emotionlessly, "but it gets results."

"Sean, you wouldn't," Miss Dooley burst out warningly.

I now had a name to pin to the man in the work boots.

"So you are soft on him, aren't you Bridgit?

"'Course not," she scoffed. "But if you go killin' all my potential clients, how am I to live? It's not soft to keep my eye open for opportunities. Besides, you said the man you were looking for was dead. That doctor isn't dead. He doesn't act like someone who was hurt bad either. Tis crazy to think a dead man could up and walk back to work without telling anyone what happened."

"Don't call me crazy, Bridgit."

The menace in Sean's voice was enough to give me pause.

I heard Bridgit gulp before she began to speak again. This time her voice took on a softer, more conciliating tone.

"Let me go back again. I'll get him to talk. Maybe he was just scared that battleaxe of a nurse would walk in on us."

"I don't like it," Sean said stubbornly. "I need to get answers, not help him into your bed. We'll wait until he leaves then follow him home. Once we know where he lives, we can collect him and take him somewhere more private."

I didn't think the second 'we' in Sean's statement meant Bridgit, and I stepped back from the window when she began remonstrating with him that it was too dangerous to kidnap a respectable doctor.

I smiled grimly over her description of me as 'respectable'. She'd never seem me tearing out the throat of a deer. Still, I couldn't let myself be taken, nor could I put my neighbors in danger from an Irish street gang.

It wasn't that I feared what Sean and his gang could do to me. Any man who punched me would find that it was equivalent to punching a brick wall, and would likely need treatment for broken knuckles. It was fear of exposure that worried me. I liked this hospital and staff. Mrs. Stevens kept the nurses from bothering me, saving me from the inconvenience of broken hearts and feminine drama. Dr. Gless was quite a lively conversationalist and a keen diagnostician when he wasn't sleeping. The head of the hospital, Dr. Murray, was as kind and compassionate an administrator as any doctor could hope to work for. I didn't know the day shift doctors very well, but they all seemed to get along with each other with only the typical bouts of pride and arrogance that our profession seemed to nurture.

I'd looked forward to at least another decade here, as I'd only just begun working at the hospital three years ago. To start all over again would be inconvenient.

What could I do? I had no way of contacting Holmes. We'd both thought my role in his investigation was over. I couldn't jeopardize his identity, but I had to do something. Thinking furiously, I strode out of the examining room towards the hospital's entrance.

To Be Continued…

A/N: Please leave a review and let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

As I left the hospital, I struck off towards the left instead of across the street as I usually did. From what Miss Dooley let slip, she or Sean of the work boots had been watching my comings and goings for some time, memorizing my work schedule. I cursed whatever mischance had brought Sean to this part of town to recognize me. The hospital where I worked wasn't that close to the Irish quarter.

If they expected me to cross the street so they could follow me I hoped to use their brief hesitation and surprise to my advantage. Walking quickly but at human speed, I rounded the corner of the hospital and stepped into the alleyway as if I'd noticed the woman who'd just been in the examining room with me.

"Miss Dooley? Still here? Are you experiencing palpitations again?"

She wasn't. Her heart rate jumped as she saw me, but steadied immediately. She smiled, and it put me in mind of a warrior raising a shield to mask his face.

Sean was further back in the alley's shadows and I pretended not to notice him.

"Dr. Cullen! Fancy seeing you again so soon."

Her refined yet flirtatious tone was back.

I smiled back in what I hoped looked like guileless charm.

"I must apologize for my brusqueness before. The hospital has very strict rules against socializing with patients during work hours. It was good of you to ask after my family. I trust your family is well?"

"We're right as rain," Bridgit said, sauntering forward. "We…."

She faltered as Sean made his appearance, moving up to stand beside her.

"That we are," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing it warningly.

"I do beg your pardon. I didn't see you there," I lied. "I'm Dr. Cullen. I treated Miss Dooley this morning at the hospital."

"I'm Sean. Sean…Dooley. Bridgit's brother."

"It's good to meet you."

Transferring my medical bag to my left hand, I put forth my right for him to shake firmly.

Even if Sean's brief hesitation before giving his assumed last name hadn't alerted me to his falsehood, one look at the two of them would have convinced me that they weren't related. Bridgit's pale skin and slight figure with its delicate bone structure, high cheekbones and green eyes were the antithesis of Sean's hulking form. He had dark bushy hair and eyebrows, and eyes as black as coal. Broad, muscled shoulders and large bones made him twice the size of the girl. She'd tensed at his touch and forced herself to relax under his possessive hand. It was hardly the reaction of a loving sister.

"How good of you to accompany your sister to the hospital. It's heartening to see siblings who are so close. I only wish my brother and I shared such a bond."

"So you do have a brother!" the girl blurted, stepping out from under her companion's hand, since he hadn't let go of his grip on her for our handshake. "I knew it!"

"Why yes, I do. A twin. I'm afraid I haven't seen him in some months…"

I placed regret for my fictional absentee brother in my voice. Bridgit nodded sagely. Sean merely stared without speaking, withholding belief.

"Hey there Dr. Cullen! Not gone yet?"

Dr. Brady, a sandy haired cherub of a man, wandered into the alleyway. I cursed my luck. I'd heard Brady's footsteps but hoped he'd walk past the alley and into the hospital without recognizing me from the back.

"You put us all to shame with the hours you work. Why I remember a professor I had in college who was like you. He…Oh."

Once Brady's eyes adjusted to the shadows, he caught sight of the couple standing before me.

I turned to greet him.

"Dr. Brady. May I introduce Miss Dooley and her brother, Sean."

Brady lumbered forward, hand outstretched. He was a pear-shaped man with clear blue eyes and plump fair cheeks that reminded one of a baby.

Sean gave his hand a cursory shake and glared when Brady lightly kissed the back of Miss Dooley's hand with awkward gallantry. Brady didn't notice. He missed a lot of things, which is why he often called on me for consultations when he was stymied by a case. In any event, he was mesmerized by Bridgit's eyes, which she used to good effect by fluttering her eyelashes to keep his attention.

"So Dr. Cullen, about the man with sepsis on the third floor…" he began, eyes still fixed on Bridgit.

"Forgive me, Dr. Brady," I cut in smoothly, knowing that Brady would regale us all with the symptoms of Mr. Willet, the patient whose name he'd already forgotten. "But I was just on my way home and…."

"And the good doctor has agreed to look in on my ailing mother," Sean cut in. "She's not feeling well and Bridgit and I are right worried about her," he fairly growled.

"Oh, I see." Brady's face fell in disappointment. "Well, perhaps later."

"Yes, tomorrow," I agreed.

Brady trundled off, late to work as usual.

"Thank you," I sighed to Sean in relief.

My relief wasn't entirely feigned. I didn't know what Sean would do to Dr. Brady if he viewed him as a threat. Sean was a dangerous man, as I had cause to know. Brady might be a bore, and not the best medical man, but he didn't deserve to be hurt.

"You can thank me by buying me a drink."

"Of course, but what of your sister?"

Decent women did not visit taverns, and Bridgit Dooley was dressed as a respectable woman.

"Bridgit will go on ahead."

The redhead nodded reluctantly. If she wanted to continue to pretend she was respectable, she couldn't very well offer to come along with us.

"I'll tell ma you'll be by later," she threw over her shoulder as she left.

Sean turned his back on her and thus missed the last spiteful glance she threw at him. There was no love in her for her employer.

"I know of a grand pub, just come along with me." His tone was peremptory, more an order than a suggestion.

How could I refuse? Dr. Brady's near miss convinced me that I had to get Sean away from any possible innocent victims. He couldn't harm me, but others? I couldn't take that chance, not with a man who'd ordered the death of a chance visitor at a pub. True, Holmes and I had set up the situation, but it was Sean and his associates who decided to 'kill' me. I wondered if Sean would lead me to the self same pub, but as he walked me through the streets I saw that we were headed to the other side of the Irish area of Chicago.

Luckily for me, the sun never broke through the clouds, and the sky threatened to retain its thick cloud cover.

"Shall we go see your mother before the pub?" I suggested timidly. "Or was that just a ruse to get away from Dr. Brady?"

I couldn't afford to look too stupid.

Sean gave me a sharp look from under his bushy eyebrows.

"Are you objectin' to drinking with me?"

"Not at all, though I must confess I'm not much of a drinker."

At least not of alcohol, I thought to myself. I hoped I wouldn't have to drink anything, but I had a feeling I'd end up with the sort of liquid I least liked in my stomach before the morning was through.

Sean grunted and walked a bit faster through the streets which began to teem with early morning workmen on their way to their jobs. It was far later than I usually left the hospital. Perhaps that was why Sean sent Bridgit to talk to me. If I'd left when I usually did, I wondered how I'd have fared. Had Sean planned to strike up a civil conversation? To use brute force to make me talk? I couldn't let the situation devolve into a brawl where innocent people might be hurt. Let him think himself in charge.

"Here we are."

He pushed open the door to a small tavern. It was little more than a narrow ground floor room with space enough for a standing bar and two or three tables along the other wall. A door in the back led to some sort of kitchen and latrine area, judging by the smell. The place was empty save for a barkeep placing empty glasses on a shelf, and a man sprawled across one of the tables. He must have been there all night, passed out drunk. If it weren't for the sound of his heavy breathing, and the scent of blood circulating through his veins, I'd have assumed him dead.

The barkeep scowled as the door opened, until he caught sight of Sean. A subtle nod passed between them.

"What'll it be gents?" he asked, wiping his hands on a stained apron as he greeted us.

"You choose," I suggested to my companion.

"Whiskey, for the both of us."

I sighed inwardly. I'd have to swallow it down to avoid suspicion. I wasn't looking forward to the aftermath.

The barkeep brought us our dinks as we stood waiting at the bar. Sean knocked his back with a practiced hand and nodded for another. I sipped mine slowly, trying not to grimace at the taste. Sean cast me a scornful look, already half way through his second drink.

"I'm not much of a drinker," I reminded him. "My brother is the man about town, not me."

"This brother of yours, I may have seen him."

Sean looked away from me, staring intently at the lewd oil painting above the bar. The smoke of countless pipes had darkened it, obscuring both the images and the artist's lack of talent.

"Really? When? Where?"

I sighed when the man did not immediately answer and let my shoulders sag a bit as I relaxed on the bar stool before continuing.

I suppose it was in an establishment such as this one. My brother disappears for months at a time, only turning up when he runs out of money or needs to be collected from jail. I've had to bail him out more times than I can count."

I managed just the right tone of resignation with a touch of resentment. I'd heard plenty of similar stories from the relatives of habitual drunkards, and it wasn't hard to infuse my voice with their same despair. Sighing heavily, I took another drink of the liquid in my glass and continued.

"Thomas was always impudent as a boy, choosing to go his own way rather than listen to his elders. He starts fights with that unruly tongue of his, and it only worsens once he's drunk. Mother always said that mouth of his would be the death of him."

Embroidering the truth came remarkably easy to me. The fictitious Thomas was the boy I'd never been growing up. This boy would have stood up to his father, and likely been soundly thrashed for it.

Sean harrumphed a bit, and downed the rest of his drink.

"A man should know when to keep his trap shut."

I blinked in pretend surprise at the remark.

"I agree wholeheartedly," I assured him. "I wish that my brother did so also, for it would save him a world of trouble."

I paused. Was it suspicion or simple dislike in Sean's eyes?

"You're the spitting image of him," he said.

"So I'm told. Have you seen him recently? He hasn't contacted our family in weeks. If you know anything at all, please tell me."

Sean was silent.

"If he is up to something…untoward or unsavory, you can tell me. You needn't spare my feelings."

I took the last sip of whiskey and glared down at my glass.

"I suppose he was drinking when you saw him," I went on morosely.

Thomas was supposed to be the drunk in the family. Not me. It gave me an idea.

Clutching my stomach, I moaned and ran for the door. Once outside I dropped to my knees, keeping the door ajar by not quite moving my feet out of the way. There I vomited up the noxious liquid sloshing in my stomach. I was as loud about it as possible.

Sean's footsteps came across the wooden planks of the bar and he stood inside the doorway.

"You alright?"

Though there wasn't much in the way of sympathy or interest in his voice, I responded as if there were.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. I've never been able to hold my liquor well."

Wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I twisted to look up at him. The man stared at me with the contempt of a habitual drinker for a lightweight. Grabbing my arm, he hauled me to my feet and stepped back.

"Go home, doctor."

"But what of your mother?" I asked confusedly.

"She's fine. Go get yourself cleaned up." His lip curled. "You're a mess."

"I suppose you're right."

I brushed ineffectively at the street filth caking the knees of my trousers. Another suit ruined in the service of Sherlock Holmes.

"I'd best collect my bag."

Re-entering the bar, I settled my account with the scowling barkeep and picked up my medical bag from the floor. The drunk at the table slept on.

"Good Day to you, Mr. Dooley. If you happen to see my brother again…" I trailed off uncertainly, then shrugged.

"I'll let you know."

We both knew it was a lie, though neither of us showed it on our faces.

"Thank you."

I left, though I didn't go far. I rounded the corner of the block then cut back through to the alley at the back of the building to press my faced against the door set in the wall. No one was in the kitchen area, and I was able to hear the conversation going on in the bar without any added noise to distract me.

"That doctor fellow, who is he?" asked the barkeep.

"No one important."

"What a chump," scoffed the barkeep. "Can't keep his drink down for more than a minute."

Sean's laugh rumbled unexpectedly.

"Better a chump than a corpse."

"What do you mean?"

"Tis nothing. How is that sister of yours? Will she be coming from the old country soon?"

Their conversation turned to politics back home and plans for a meeting of the gang members, so I stepped back from the door and walked away.

Holmes had to be warned of Sean's suspicions. I hoped I'd allayed them, but I couldn't know for sure. How to get the message to him? Pondering the issue, I continued down the alley as an idea formed.

I kept to the alleys as I made my way back towards the tavern where Holmes and I played out our little scene for the Irish gang. It stood to reason that Sean took me to a bar far from Holmes' dwelling if he wanted to pump me for information because he suspected him. Therefore the tavern where I'd first seen the Irishman must be closer to where the detective lived. Holmes seemed quite at home in the tavern in the quick glance I'd taken before shouting my anti-Home Rule drivel and storming out. It wasn't much to go on but it was all I had.

I came at last to an alley that opened onto the street where the tavern was. I scrawled "Need to speak with you urgently regarding M" on the torn off bottom of an old letter from a patient, and placed it inside a spare envelope I found in the side pocket of my medical bag. So far as I knew, I was the only one in America who knew of Holmes' brother Mycroft. I couldn't sign the message 'C' since Sean knew my name. If the message were intercepted, Sean would guess that I was in touch with Holmes, which would surely reawaken his suspicions.

Writing "Altamont", Holmes' pseudonym, on the outside of the envelope, I placed it over a coin I'd left on top of an ashcan lid near the mouth of the alley and melted back into the shadows to await my prey.

A small grey cat walked into the alley, padding confidently over the bits of refuse in its path. It stopped and stared through the shadows, picking me out unerringly with its wide yellow eyes. Then its ears flattened and it hissed, spitting out hatred and disapproval before streaking back the way it came. This wasn't the prey that I sought.

It only took a half hour before I spotted a street urchin passing by.

"Hey, kid." I made my voice low, guttural.

The child paused and stared, but I kept well back behind some boxes piled up halfway down the alley, shadowed by strands of forgotten laundry that hung between the buildings overhead.

"Who's there?"

Caution warred with curiosity in the urchin's brown eyes. He was wary, but unafraid. He should have been. I wasn't the only predator on the streets of Chicago.

His clothes were of poor quality, but clean and well mended. He wasn't a street orphan; someone cared for him. I hoped that meant he was more rather than less reliable. I ignored his question, and put forth my terms.

"There's a coin under that envelope for you if you deliver it to Altamont."

The child's eyes dropped to the white rectangle of paper on the ashcan and he took a step toward it then stopped.

"I don't know any Altamont."

Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

"Ask around. If you can't find him, keep the coin and return the envelope here before dark."

The kid took another wary step forward, pausing to see what happened. When I didn't move, he took another step, then another, bringing him to the ashcan. Gingerly, as if it were a bomb set to explode, he took the edge of the envelope between his fingertips and lifted it to peer under it.

Seeing the coin, he let out a low whistle and moved the envelope aside to grasp it in his fist.

"The envelope!" I reminded him sharply.

He gulped and nodded, taking coin in one hand and envelope in the other and backing up a step.

He considered for a moment then stuck his chin out.

"How do you know I won't take the money and throw your envelope away?"

It was a child's bravado. To not answer it was to run the risk of encouraging the very action the boy suggested.

"Because I know what you look like, and I can find you again."

I don't know what the child heard in my voice, but it sobered him.

"You won't have to," he muttered. "I'll deal square with you."

"Then be off with you," I suggested gruffly, touched by the promise of square dealing and the honest determination I saw in his eyes.

The child gave a quick grin and ran off, doubtless thinking of the obscene amount of sweets he could buy with the coin.

I returned to the alley before my shift at work. The ashcan was still there, but the envelope wasn't.

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Holmes showed up at my apartment door moments after I returned home from the hospital. It was right before dawn. Despite the hour he looked well rested and alert, his grey neckcloth knotted at a jaunty angle and a freshly laundered shirt under his tweed jacket and trouser set.

After I explained what had happened, he surprised me by smiling.

"Good thinking, Cullen."

His approval warmed me, for I knew he didn't give it often.

"I believe I persuaded him that I'm the twin of your victim, but I thought you should know he suspected something was wrong."

"I'll deal with Sean Murphy, never fear."

"So his family name is Murphy? Not Dooley?"

Holmes gave a bark of laughter.

"No, it's not Dooley, nor is the fair Bridgit's family name Dooley. Bridgit O'Brien is a prostitute who fancies herself an actress. Murphy uses her in his blackmail schemes from time to time."

"Ah." That explained the girl's lack of warmth towards her supposed brother. Murphy saw her as a tool to be used in his criminal endeavors. No wonder she bore him no affection.

I glanced over at Holmes.

"What will you do now?"

He thought a moment.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need your help again, Cullen."

"Anything," I assured him promptly.

I meant it. It's not that medicine is ever dull, but the chance of assisting Holmes gave me a sense of anticipation that I'd thought long dead.

"You remind me of Watson sometimes," Holmes said with a smile in his voice. "It's good to have an ally on this side of the ocean. Murphy called a meeting this afternoon. He hasn't spoken to me directly since the incident at the hospital with you. It troubles me. He keeps his secrets close, and trusts very few of his lieutenants. They, however, obey him without question. If he should turn on me during the meeting I'll be outnumbered. It would be prudent to have you in reserve should the need arise."

I understood. If Murphy somehow figured out we'd tricked him, he'd order his men to kill Holmes. I'd have to extract Holmes, possibly exposing myself to do it. I considered my life here in Chicago, then set the thought aside. The risk was worth it.

"Where do you need me?"

"The meeting will be in the upper room of the tavern where we met before. It's one of several places Sean uses. The building in the back has a few empty apartments. If need be you can make the jump across to the tavern, I trust?"

It was a rhetorical question. Holmes had seen me in action before.

I grinned my agreement, and he went on.

"The meeting is scheduled for four o'clock."

"I'll be early."

I didn't bother to tell Holmes that I'd be there as soon as I could change clothes. Yesterday I'd purchased some second hand clothing just in case Holmes needed me. The old clothes served the dual purpose of allowing me to blend in with the lower classes better, and saved my good clothes from ruination. It was a good thing my investments and salary yielded me the security of wealth, for my annual clothing budget was in grave danger if I kept losing suits to canal and street stains.

"If you need to reach me, I'm staying at a flophouse on Elm Street. There's one other member of Murphy's gang staying there as well, so be discreet. You can use Tommy again if you want to send a message."

"Tommy?"

"He gave me your message," Holmes said, the subtle raising of an eyebrow signifying his surprise at my inability to place the name.

"I didn't know his name," I admitted. "I left the message and a coin in an alley and spoke to him from the shadows."

Comprehension dawned, and approval lit up the detective's face.

"You're much better at this game than I gave you credit for, Cullen. As is Tommy."

"He didn't tell you how he came by the envelope?"

Holmes shook his head. "He marched up to the door and asked for me. He was quite adamant, and wouldn't let my landlady take the envelope from him. I found that he lives with his mother, a laundress. He's not associated with any gang, at least not yet. He's a perfect messenger."

"I'll keep that in mind."

It bothered me that Holmes thought of the boy in terms of how he could be used, but I supposed that in his profession he had to be pragmatic rather than sentimental. Some of what I was thinking must have shown on my face, for Holmes leaned forward to explain.

"I meant merely that Tommy can't read, and isn't a member of a rival gang. Even were he captured by Murphy's gang, they wouldn't suspect him of spying on them, only of being an unwitting messenger."

With a few more details hammered out, Holmes took his leave, and I prepared to spend my day ensconced in an empty apartment listening in on an Irish street gang.

o-o-o

Dime novels never seem to give a true sense of how dull it can be to spy on a criminal gang's activities. The tavern didn't open until noon, and much of the time beforehand was spent in employees cleaning up and readying for the evening. I learned that the scullery maid was sweet on the newsboy, and heard a blistering tirade of Gaelic cursing when a glass was broken, but not much else that would help Holmes.

The empty apartment where I camped out was Spartan in the extreme, unfurnished save for dust and the occasional insect scurrying across the floor. The view outside the window consisted of the tavern's back wall, which was built of dark red grimy bricks. The smell of vomit and urine wafted up from below, mingling with the pigeon droppings that encrusted the upper portion of the building. A few narrow windows interrupted the brick expanse, all of them covered by cheap lace curtains which obscured the view within.

The hours wore on. Patrons began to show up around noon for a drink and a bowl of the stew which the tavern kept simmering in their kitchen. The murmur of voices welled up, then diminished with the end of the lunch hour as customers made their way back to work.

Around three o'clock, they came.

Sean Murphy's voice rumbled in the midst of several others I recognized from the night I was thrown into the canal. A slight flute-like voice piped up among them, a girl or a very young boy. The voices moved to the creaking stairs and settled in the upper room where Holmes said the meeting was to be. The meeting was evidently starting without him.

"Report, girl." Sean's voice commanded quiet from the others.

The lilting voice I'd heard on the stairs coughed then spoke.

"No one at the hospital's heard of Dr. Cullen having a brother."

There was silence at that, then suspicious mutters. My heart sank. Murphy sent a spy to the hospital to ask after my fictitious brother. My acting was for naught. I hadn't convinced him.

"But they don't know nothing 'bout the rest of his family either. He don't talk about family to them."

"What does he talk about?" asked Sean neutrally.

The girl sighed.

"Not much far as I can tell. The women folk're all in love with him and the men're green with jealousy. One of the doctors told a nurse who told the kitchen staff that he's a right proud one, so if he's got a bad egg for a brother it isn't likely he'd tell of it."

What is the expression? Eavesdroppers never hear good things of themselves? I was confronted with the truth of that statement. Prideful? Me? I'd never considered before how my refusal to speak of my past would seem. I always changed the subject when questions became too personal. Was I really the object of universal jealousy as well?

I resolved to try to get along better with my colleagues. The real question was, would Sean believe the girl?

"What else did you find out?"

"He's a good 'un. Hasn't worked there but three years, and everyone says he's a hard worker, willing to stay overtime without extra pay when they ask him."

I was amused by the touch of awe in the girl's voice. For someone like me who didn't sleep or tire, extra work hours meant nothing.

"So Saint Cullen keeps his nose clean, does he?"

Cowed by the contempt in Murphy's voice, the girl merely answered quietly in the affirmative.

"Fine then, get along with you. Michael, fetch me some ale."

The male voices began discussing a horse race, and the female and Michael made their way down the stairs. Halfway down, they paused.

"Your cousin, Moira, how is she? Have you heard from her?"

Michael's tenor voice was a familiar one. I remembered hearing it on the quay. He'd said the world was well rid of me. His voice was lower now, softened with entreaty.

"Moira's at the same house," the girl answered grumpily. "Better one than me, as well you know. If you want to see her, just bring money."

"I meant is she…happier?"

"She hasn't tried to hang herself agin' if that's what you're askin'. Now let me go. If I don't get back soon Madame'll have my hide, Sean Murphy or no Sean Murphy."

She clumped down the stairs.

Michael the tenor remained where he stood for a long moment. I wished that I could see his face. There'd been real emotion in his voice for the suicidal Moira. He'd been vulnerable, but the girl hadn't seen it or chose to ignore it.

His footsteps resumed their journey, and then made their way up again laden with a tankard that sloshed as he walked too quickly to make up the time he'd lost in his conversation with the girl.

Some time later Holmes' footsteps walked through the lower room of the tavern. He answered a greeting or two jovially before making his way up the stairs. I tensed. This was why I was here.

"Altamont."

Murphy's greeting lacked welcome, but then again the man didn't appear to have a convivial bone in his body.

His companions fell silent as Holmes entered the room. I saw him briefly as he passed in front of the window, a shadowy form against dingy lace curtains.

"Starting without me?" asked Holmes with Irish insouciance.

"Pull up a chair," Murphy answered.

"Where've you been, Altamont?" asked someone else.

"Wasn't the meeting at four?"

"Three you great idiot," another voice insulted casually.

The rest of the gang at least seemed to have accepted Holmes' alter ego.

"That man you took care of, how would you feel about killing his twin?"

"Fine by me."

If there was any hesitation in Holmes' voice I couldn't detect it.

"When and where?" he asked.

Murphy made a humming noise in the back of his throat.

"Leave it for now. We've other tasks. The guns're coming in soon. I've a smaller shipment at the pawnbroker's on Division Street. Altamont, you and Brien go see to it. Now."

Holmes and another pair of feet made their way down the stairs. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Holmes was out. Holmes was safe. My job, however, wasn't yet done. I didn't trust Murphy not to change his mind and send an assassin after Holmes. I stayed put.

"Michael, follow along in case they need a lookout."

"Of course," the tenor voice agreed, surprised. His footsteps left the tavern as well. I now knew that the tenor's name was Michael. I wondered what his surname was.

"What do you think?" an older voice asked.

There were three people left in the room.

"About what?"

"Altamont." The older voice answered. "Can he be trusted?"

Sean hummed again, a sound I came to realize meant he was cogitating.

"We might be needing to send a man to Buffalo again."

"You're thinking of Altamont?" the third man asked.

"Perhaps," came Sean's voice.

"He didn't flinch when you suggested killing the doctor."

"No, that he did not."

There was a silence and the scraping sound a glass makes across a table as it's pushed away.

"Altamont it is, then. But I'll be sending Michael first to set things up and keep an eye on the other situation. If Altamont fails us, Michael will let us know. He's his father's son through and through. I'll send the message directly. Now let's go get ourselves another drink."

All three sets of footsteps lumbered downstairs, and stayed at the bar the two hours I waited for them to send a messenger. Others entered the bar, but no one left. Footsteps tramped up and down the stairs past the meeting room, ascending higher to rooms used for boarding, and still no one left the tavern.

I glanced at my pocket watch and sighed. I'd hoped to follow this messenger, to give Holmes some more information for his investigation, but as it was I'd be late to work if I didn't hurry away, so I left, giving myself barely enough time to dash through the darkening alleys to my apartment to change clothes and show up at the hospital on time.

0-0-0

"Mrs. Stevens, am I…?"

I trailed off distractedly. There was an unexpected lull between patients, and I found that my curiosity got the best of me.

"Are you what, doctor?"

I saw nothing but honest inquiry in her face. Her eyes were crinkled at the edges with age lines that also scored deep paths in her soft cheeks from nose to lips' edge. Under her white headdress she looked like a kindly nun.

Considering my words, I paused. How could I ask if my fellow doctors were jealous of me without sounding conceited?

"Am I disliked?"

That didn't come out quite the way I'd planned it either, but it would have to do.

"Why no, doctor," Mrs. Stevens assured me. "You're quite well-liked." A smile played around her mouth. "Especially by the nurses."

"I meant by the doctors," I muttered quickly. "Do they find me cold? Unfriendly? Arrogant perhaps?"

A brief flash of sympathy showed in her eyes. She cleared her throat and stood straighter.

"Dr. Cullen, I shall tell you what I tell all my new doctors who bother to ask. No one at this hospital will judge you on anything but your willingness to work and do your best. It is integrity that matters, and if you work hard and fulfill your obligations you will find a place for yourself here," she said with an air of one delivering a speech to raw recruits about to face the battlefield.

Then her shoulders rounded, her posture softened, and she looked at me with steady grey eyes.

"You are a valued member of this hospital, Dr. Cullen, and if any of our other doctors have anything to say against you, they shall deal with me."

She lifted her hand as if to pat my cheek, but stopped herself and straightened my collar instead.

"I'll have no more of this self-doubt, Dr. Cullen," she scolded gently. "You are the best of us," she said, then smiled and walked away.

I stared after her, bemused. Had I blood in my veins I was quite sure I'd be blushing. What a fool I was to let a chance conversation put me in a position where the head nurse felt the need to reassure me as if I were a first year resident. It was touching, yet also vaguely humiliating. I began counting the hours until my shift ended.

To be continued…

A/N: Leave a review and let me know what you think of it.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Dawn came all too slowly, and with it came Holmes to my lodgings.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to follow Murphy's messenger," I told him once he'd settled himself before the fire and heard my report of what went on after he'd left. "I watched the tavern carefully, but none of his men left before I had to leave myself."

Holmes shrugged.

"My dear doctor, you've already done far more than I ever expected to have to ask of you. And now I must ask even more."

He paused, eyeing me steadily.

"Oh?"

I couldn't help the note of interest in my voice.

"Yes. Murphy is sending me to Buffalo, as you overheard. I'm bringing a load of guns with me, to be deposited at a warehouse on the lake. I fear he may be planning an attempt against his bosses."

"In Buffalo?"

Buffalo was a growing city, but it wasn't New York or Chicago. It also wasn't a place one thought of when contemplating gang violence.

Holmes smiled indulgently at my consternation.

"The leaders of the Irish organization Murphy belongs to are headquartered in Buffalo. I confess I was surprised as well to learn this fact. Buffalo may not be quite as sprawling a metropolis as Chicago, yet it is large enough to allow criminals a certain anonymity, and the Canadian border is close if an escape is needed. It's a perfect place for them to blend in."

Holmes leaned back in the armchair and folded his hands as a somber look stole across his features as he resumed speaking.

"Murphy's gang controls the brothels and back room gambling in Buffalo. I'm more interested in their other activities, the ones they keep from their underlings. If Murphy kills off the leadership in Buffalo, which he could easily do considering the amount of weapons he's amassed, there goes my hope of following the connection between the Irish insurrectionists at home and those who support them here."

"I see."

Holmes was in a horrible position. To protect his investigation, he could very well have to save one set of violent criminals from another criminal, all without exciting Murphy's ire and retribution.

"You shall indeed," Holmes returned with a serious glint in his eye. "I want you with me, Cullen. Your ability to eavesdrop is invaluable, and there is no one else on the continent I can trust as I do you."

"Of course I'll go if you wish it."

There was very little that I wouldn't do for Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't just that he was an honorable man whose goals I could approve, I also wanted to assist him for my own sake. Healing and helping others gave my existence a purpose. It did at times seem a passive form of help though. I assisted humans after their bones were broken, or after they'd already contracted a disease or infection. It was often too little too late.

I knew, of course, of the Anglo-Irish troubles back in England. The violence, the bombings, and the unthinkable harm each side inflicted were chronicled in horrific detail in the newspapers. To be able to stop harm before it could occur was a worthy cause indeed.

"I'm to leave for Buffalo tomorrow morning. If you could make arrangements to join me by week's end, I'd be much obliged to you. I can leave word for you at the post office in Lafayette Square."

"I'll be there by Friday," I promised. It might mean leaving my position and severing all ties with the hospital, but I would be where Holmes needed me.

As it happened, Dr. Murray was completely amenable to my taking a leave of absence when I asked him that afternoon.

"Take as much time as you need, Dr. Cullen," he said heartily.

Dr. Murray was a pale skinned, ginger haired man with light blue eyes which projected his sympathy towards me when I gave him the excuse of a dying mother.

"You know the full resources of this hospital are at your disposal should you need them," Murray went on. "Has your mother been ill long?"

"No, her illness was sudden."

"Sometimes it happens that way," Murray nodded, probably remembering some of his own patients who sickened unexpectedly.

I was touched by his offer of help, even as it presented difficulties.

"My mother lives in Canada. My family only just sent word to me this morning and none of them are doctors so I don't have many details. I only know that her condition is serious. I thank you for your offer, but I'm sure she's being well cared for where she is."

"I pray that it is so. There are some fine doctors across the border in Canada."

Murray hesitated, then leaned against his desk, playing with a glass paperweight as he spoke again.

"You know, Dr. Cullen, you could have taken a leave before now. You never seem to use your days off, and I don't know that I can remember you taking a holiday either. While I can't say that the hospital hasn't benefited from your presence, it isn't good for a man to be consumed by work alone. Please take as much time as you need. Your position will be waiting for you whenever you return. You have my word on it."

"Thank you," I managed, swallowing the lump in my throat as the guilt came crashing down.

Lying is a necessary part of my existence, yet I never ceased to feel a twinge of conscience whenever I had to lie to a good man like Dr. Murray. I made my farewells and left as soon as I decently could.

Despite my guilt and nagging sense that going off on an adventure was more self-indulgent than altruistic, I found myself, baggage in hand, stepping off the train in Buffalo on Friday, just as I'd promised Holmes.

I walked to the post office near Lafayette Square and collected the message he'd left for me at the front desk. Holmes was right about Buffalo. It was a city in and of itself, with electric streetlamps adorning all the major thoroughfares and a spoke-like pattern to the streets.

Holmes left me the keys and a map to a small cabin nestled in between two rather large estates just outside of town. It was perfect, near enough to the uncultivated lands beyond that I'd be able to hunt easily, and close enough to town that I could be at Holmes' beck and call should he require my presence. I made my way there on foot and surveyed my lodgings.

The one room cabin was small, about twelve feet by twelve feet with a wood burning stove and a supply of split logs, a cot, a table with two chairs in the center of the room and a bureau with a basin and ewer against the far wall. I settled down at the table and began reading one of the medical journals I brought with me on the train.

I was in the middle of a fascinating account of a case study of malaria when I heard a motorcar coming down the road to the cabin. Placing an envelope in the journal to mark my place, I stood up and realized that the cabin was completely dark. Lack of light didn't impede my ability to read. Holmes, on the other hand, would probably appreciate some illumination.

Near the wood box I found an oil lamp and some matches. By the time Holmes disembarked from the automobile, I had it lit and shining in the middle of the table.

He came in without ceremony and looked around sharply.

"I'm sorry for the Spartan quarters, Cullen."

"Not at all, I'm quite content."

I noticed a slight shiver pass through Holmes' thin frame and was immediately stricken with conscience. Holmes was no longer a young man, and the night was cold.

"Let me start a fire," I suggested.

I hadn't thought of the chill's effect on my visitor. Engrossed in my medical journal, I'd been remiss as a host.

"No," Holmes raised his hand dismissively. "I can't stay long or the others might get suspicious. I'm supposed to be 'letting off steam' out on the town."

He quirked his mouth drolly. "I can only stay a moment before I have to head back and find a tavern to shore up my alibi."

"What would you like me to do?"

"Just listen for now, and when I come to collect you tomorrow afternoon, tell me your thoughts."

He pulled out a chair from the table and sat, motioning me to do likewise before continuing.

"The guns I brought are being stored in a warehouse owned by the Buffalo Forge Company. I was told to deliver them at night, and only when everyone besides the night watchman had gone home. The night watchman made no attempt to hide his dislike of me, my companion, and my cargo, but he allowed us to unload it then nearly shoved us out the door in his haste to be done with us."

"Interesting."

Holmes nodded. "Even more interesting was my partner's attitude toward the night watchman. It was as though he knew the man couldn't refuse us."

"Blackmail?" I suggested.

"I don't think so. Victims of blackmail always exhibit an element of fear. This man felt only contempt."

"Perhaps he was acting under orders?" I offered.

"Whose?" Holmes countered. "The night watchman's last name was engraved on the back of his pocket watch. It was not an Irish surname, not unless Olegson is a Gaelic clan unfamiliar to me. He exhibited none of the physical characteristics of the Irish either. White blonde hair and ice blue eyes are more indicative of Scandinavia than Ireland. I doubt he feels any allegiance to Murphy's gang. The owner of the Buffalo Forge Company is named Erikson, also Scandinavian. Yet I can think of no one else who could order the night watchman to assist in hiding illicit goods. I've asked around and Erikson is a wealthy and well respected member of society whose only vice appears to be a glass of wine on special occasions."

"Then why would he order his employee to help hide weapons in his warehouse?"

I knew the sort of man Holmes described. Such men were not likely to embark on a life of crime, not with a reputation to uphold.

"That is the question that's been gnawing at me. It's a loose end, and one I may as well tie up since I'm getting nowhere in my attempts to find out who is giving Murphy his orders."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." Holmes rose to his feet. "The game isn't finished yet. I'll be by tomorrow to collect you. I've a theory I'd like to confirm, and I may very well need your assistance."

After Holmes left I tried to go back to reading the journal, but ended up setting it aside. Tropical disease no longer had quite the same pull on me. I set my mind to pondering Erikson and his warehouse. Before I knew it, night fled and a new day had begun.

o-o-o

Holmes collected me the next afternoon and drove me to a park on the outskirts of town. I waited until he turned off the engine to ask why he'd brought me.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment.

"I'm not entirely sure, Cullen. I've been over the ground myself, but it is a large park as you can see."

Glancing around, I confirmed his statement. It was more an untamed area of horse trails and dirt paths than the manicured lawns of English parks.

"What is it I'm here to see?"

"Actually I'd rather you smell than see," he said with a quick smile. He took a scrap of fabric out of his pocket and handed it to me.

It was blue, and of good quality material that felt substantial, tightly woven into a thick density, yet soft.

"It belongs to the daughter of Mr. Erikson, the owner of the Buffalo Forge Company. I discovered that two weeks ago today Miss Erikson went for a drive in a pony trap with the family groom. She was seen leaving her father's estate by a farmer digging post holes for a fence, but when the pony trap returned, Miss Erikson was not in it, and according to the farmer, the groom was near frantic. Since that time no one has seen or heard from Miss Erikson. There has been no report to the police, and the family maintains that she is visiting relatives in Canada."

"Do the Eriksons have relatives in Canada?"

"No," Holmes replied shortly.

"Have you asked Mr. Erikson where his daughter is?"

"The Eriksons admit no one to their estate, and give the excuse of Mrs. Erikson's illness. She's an invalid but before now she's entertained visitors cheerfully while tucked up on a chaise lounge in her parlor. Erikson has posted servants at the front gate with strict orders. Even if I could get in, I can't reveal my true identity without compromising my false one with the Murphy gang. I don't think I need to. The increased precautions of the Eriksons smack of locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen."

I contemplated that in silence.

"Could it be a…romantic assignation? Might she have run off with a suitor?"

I don't know why I felt I had to offer suggestions, perhaps because I didn't really want to think of a young woman at the mercy of Murphy's gang.

Holmes smiled grimly.

"Miss Erikson is a ten year old girl," he informed me.

"And this bit of cloth?" I lifted the scrap between us.

"Was found by me lodged in the bark of that tree," Holmes nodded to a large gnarled trunk whose branches overspread the dirt road where we'd parked. "She was wearing blue when she left that day," he added.

"A kidnapping," I said dully.

The thought of a child in the hands of a heartless man like Sean Murphy was somehow even worse. I reminded myself that Murphy was still in Chicago. Even so, his crew of murderers and criminal minions here in Buffalo probably weren't much better, and if Murphy was planning to slaughter his bosses with the weapons he'd collected, he could arrive in Buffalo at any time.

"It appears so," Holmes agreed. He sighed sharply. "It's been two weeks, Cullen. I don't know if there's anything you can find that I didn't. The area was trampled by both people and horses in the two week period since the girl disappeared. It hasn't rained since then, but that is the only glimmer of hope I can offer. The trail is very cold indeed."

I glanced back at the tiny bit of cloth in my hand, pretending not to notice Holmes' frustration at his lack of progress. We both knew he couldn't have prevented the kidnapping, as he was in Chicago when it occurred.

"I'll do the best I can," I told him, and got out of the motorcar.

Placing the cloth to my nose I inhaled. It smelt most strongly of tree, since that's where Holmes found it. There was the faintest whisper of roses, as if the girl had washed in rose scented water, but there was nothing of her own human scent. I could walk right by the child and not know her.

There was nothing I could do. The girl was doomed.

I saw that my companion was standing beside me. I shook my head slowly. He looked away towards the tree, and pointed to where a branch had been sheered off years before at about hip level. The tree's wound was no longer bright and raw, though the edges ware still jagged.

"That's where I found the cloth."

I walked over to it. It was of the right height to catch the shoulder or back of a child if she'd fallen against it. The question was, why had she fallen? I frowned as I pondered. Why didn't the kidnappers simply point a gun at the groom and order the girl out of the pony trap? Why was she riding in a pony trap anyhow? A rich family such as the Eriksons could surely afford their own motorcar. Placing my hand on the stump of the branch, I traced its rough edges.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, forcing my senses out and around. I could smell Holmes of course, his blood pounding away in his veins, an ever-present temptation as were all humans. The acrid burnt fuel and sharp metal scents of the automobile threatened to overwhelm the earth and foliage's background aroma. There, off in the distance was a thread of a scent that didn't fit. It was medicinal, familiar. It was…

"Chloroform," I said, opening my eyes.

Without bothering to see if Holmes followed, I strode toward it. The aroma was faded, barely enough to follow, but I knew the general direction. I used my eyes to good effect as well, scanning the area closely as I moved away from the tree shaded road toward a stand of bushes. Lifting a branch out of my way, I reached out to my target, caught on a dead leaf on the branch below.

It was a single strand of white cotton gauze. I pulled it gently from the leaf and presented it to Holmes, who narrowed his eyes and caught the trailing end between two of his fingers.

"Chloroform is used in surgery, to give patients the comfort of unconsciousness during the more painful procedures."

Holmes lifted an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know."

I closed my mouth and reflected that he probably had first hand knowledge of it in his career as a detective, for chloroform was also used to knock out victims in crimes.

Another worry struck me. Chloroform had to be calibrated to the size of the patient. Had the gang members known that when they applied it to young Miss Erikson's mouth? Too much chloroform could be deadly to a small child.

I inhaled in order to sigh deeply, as I did sometimes when I was worried. As I tasted the air I caught another scent that didn't belong. I raised my head and glanced around, inhaling again.

There.

Again I left Holmes behind in my quest to find the scent. I felt rather like a bloodhound. Holmes gave a startled grunt at my speed, but followed as best he could.

Beyond the stand of bushes was a rocky incline, and at the top of that was another road running parallel to the park. At the side of the road, wedged against a rock was a crumpled handkerchief. Kneeling, I stuffed the blue scrap of fabric into my pocket and reached for the white square.

A few moments later, Holmes was at my side. I rose and handed him the handkerchief. He took it and immediately began analyzing it out loud.

"Cheaply made, mass produced in an American textile mill. The weave is unremarkable. The cotton is domestic from one of the southern states. See here," he pulled an edge taut. "The machined hem has come undone and been re-hemmed by hand."

"Is that important?" I asked blankly.

He shrugged and said, "It shows that the owner of the handkerchief is a careful person, probably a female."

"Oh. That would explain the tears."

Holmes looked up from his perusal of the cloth.

"Tears?"

I nodded and crossed my arms. Keeping up the pretense of human mannerisms was more for form's sake than necessity around Holmes.

"That's how I found it. I smelled the sodium in the dried tears. There's sodium in blood as well," I mused. "I expect that's why I was able to sense it."

A brief flash of something like admiration passed over Holmes' face as he nodded his approval.

"However you did it, my good man, you've solved a nagging question."

"Did I?" I thought over my words but could find no epiphany in them.

"The Erikson girl is mostly blind, the result of a fall when she was a child. Therefore she never ventures out without a family member or servant accompanying her. I wondered why her groom, undoubtedly chosen for his strength and responsibility, allowed Miss Erikson to leave with the kidnappers. What could have possessed him to stop the pony trap and leave his charge vulnerable?"

Holmes held up the handkerchief.

"A crying woman by the side of the road," he answered his own question, and went on in the triumphant tone of one deciphering a particularly thorny math problem. "What could be more non-threatening? I expect Miss Erikson herself ordered the groom to stop and assist the woman. Her accomplices doubtless were hiding well back in the bushes with their chloroform at the ready. With a gun trained on the groom they could easily get to the girl. She struggled against the fumes and tore her coat on the tree. The woman doubtless dropped her handkerchief while loading the child into their motorcar."

"But where is she now?" I asked quietly, my thoughts riveted on the young girl.

He paused, sobered by the question.

"That, my dear Cullen, is what we have to find out next if we're to break the hold Murphy has over Erikson."

"Have you learned anything more of his plans for Erikson, and the guns you brought?"

"No. I begin to think that Murphy isn't planning to move against his elusive bosses in Buffalo, but is planning to make a move at their bidding. It's clear the guns are being assembled at their behest, but for what purpose? No one knows. I've been asked if I'd be willing to kill Erikson so I know that they consider him expendable. They're very careful, whoever they are, not to let the right hand of their organization know what the left hand is doing."

"And Michael?"

"Michael O'Malley?"

"The one with the tenor voice who was at the docks when I 'died'," I reminded him.

"That's O'Malley. Murphy trusts him about as much as he trusts anyone else, which means not at all. I haven't seen O'Malley but twice in passing since coming here. He doesn't care for Altamont, and rejects all overtures of good will."

Holmes spoke of his pseudonym as if it belonged to a completely different person. I suppose in a sense it did. The detective who stood before me spoke good king's English without a trace of an Irish brogue. His mannerisms were controlled and precise, and he allowed his quick intellect to show through his eyes. When playing the role of Altamont he was far more convivial, though not as overtly intelligent.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was one of the most brilliant humans I'd ever met. If he said Murphy didn't trust Michael O'Malley, then talking to him about the organization's goals was undoubtedly a dead end. It reminded me of something else though.

"I wonder if he found the girl he was so concerned about," I mused.

"Moira, you said her name was?"

I nodded. I'd recounted the entire conversations I'd overhead at the tavern when I'd eavesdropped for Holmes.

Folding the handkerchief, he placed it in his pocket.

"I'll look into it."

Startled, I uncrossed my arms.

"You needn't do that. It's mere curiosity on my part."

From what her cousin told Michael on the tavern stairs, Moira had tried to commit suicide by hanging, but survived the attempt. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor women trapped in brothels. I knew that many of them hadn't chosen that way of life, but were immigrants working off their passage to America in ways they'd never dreamed of in their worst nightmares. Murphy appeared to use those women as spies as well as prostitutes, and my contempt for the man increased even more.

"It's no trouble at all," Holmes shrugged. "Besides, in an investigation such as this one, any new piece of information could prove invaluable."

"I suppose you're right," I said, but I hoped secretly that Holmes would expend his energies searching for the Erikson girl instead. Much as I sympathized with young Michael and his Moira, the little girl's plight was the one that most concerned me. How was she being treated? Was she frightened? Hurt? Hungry? The sooner Holmes found and rescued her, the better.

To Be Continued…

A/N: Leave a review and let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

The gang's headquarters in Buffalo was above a restaurant near a busy market area with greengrocers, butcher shops, bakeries and flower shops accepting deliveries and customers all the time. The foot traffic was perfect for allowing the gang to blend in.

Like most of the buildings on the street, the ground floors were businesses and the floors above were small apartments. The two apartments directly above the right side of the restaurant were where the gang met. A few gang members lived in an apartment on the top most floor of the building, but the majority of the tenants were simple working men and their families.

I came to know the families and the men living above the restaurant quite well, for Holmes had me watching the place from the building next door. With only a small alley separating the two edifices, I could leap easily from the window on the landing of my building right into the window of the gang's hideout, if I didn't mind breaking the glass and making a remarkably noisy entrance. Their window was covered with an Irish newspaper pasted over the panes, but I could still hear everything that went on.

The newspaper itself was a year old, and I grew weary of reading the article gloating over the fact that House of Lords back home could only delay but not stop Asquith's bill proposing Irish Home Rule, and chastising Bonar-Law's Conservative party for not immediately acquiescing to it.

British politics seemed so far removed from my life and work in the Chicago hospital. If Holmes hadn't shown up, I doubt I would have given the Irish troubles a thought. Now I was immersed in them, through listening to the conversations in the building next door.

"When I was a lad, we knew how to take care o' our enemies."

It was the geriatric criminal, a man named O'Donovan. He drank almost continuously from morning until night and appeared to be the second floor apartments' caretaker and only legal tenant. Because of this his stories and reminiscences were tolerated by the others.

"Is that right?" One of the younger men asked disinterestedly. From the tone of his voice he was concentrating on the papers he kept shuffling before him.

"Tis true! In my day we swore a solemn oath for a republic we could call our own."

Liquid sloshed as the bottom of a tankard thumped against a table.

"Hey!"

The sound of hastily moved papers and a grunt of disgust came soon after.

"Ye'll not be getting a republic with those my lad. It takes guns and blood. Like in '82. That was a grand year it was."

With a start I realized that O'Donovan was talking about the Phoenix Park murders when the newly appointed British Chief Secretary for Ireland and his Under Secretary had been assassinated by yet another Irish secret society. At the time the British newspapers were full of the story. Five men were captured and hanged for the crime. I wondered if O'Donovan remembered that part of the story.

"We have guns," the other man reminded his elder.

"Aye, so you say. But what'll ye be doing with them? Guns do no one any good rusting away in some warehouse. When's Murphy going to be using them is what I want to know."

I leaned my shoulder against the wall of the apartment where I stayed while its occupant was at work and mused that I would very much like to know the same. Holmes had a duplicate key made which fit the lock in the door, and so long as I found another vantage point before full dark, the apartment was a perfect hiding place. The bedroom window was set slightly cattycorner from the window where the Irish conspirators sat at a table when they met to give and receive orders.

"Murphy will tell us when he's good and ready, and not before," the younger voice chimed in sharply. "He'll be here soon and you can ask him yourself."

From the silence that greeted this suggestion, I assumed O'Donovan thought better of taking the advice. Calling to mind Murphy's cold glare, I assumed that no matter how drunk O'Donovan became, he wouldn't be calling down the wrath of his leader by questioning Murphy's decisions.

"Clan na gael was never like this," O'Donovan muttered under his breath as he left the room.

I frowned. I'd never heard of Clan na gael. O'Donovan must have been involved in a previous gang before joining Murphy and his associates. I'd have to ask Holmes about it.

The sound of his footsteps on the stairs alerted me to his presence before he set his own key into the lock and entered the sad little two room apartment where I spent my days.

"Cullen," he nodded a greeting as he came and stood on the other side of the window.

"Good afternoon, Holmes. How was the garage today?"

As part of his cover, Holmes was employed under the name Altamont at a local garage working as a mechanic part time. The garage owner was a Fenian sympathizer, and allowed 'Altamont' to come and go as he pleased, whenever gang business took priority. It went without saying that the owner kept an eye on Holmes and reported back to Murphy.

"Illuminating. It appears that several of the city officials get their cars serviced at the garage and have long conversations with the head mechanic."

"Do you think that they are…" I didn't know how to phrase it precisely.

"Taking orders from the head mechanic of a small garage?" Holmes put it wryly. "No. The head mechanic merely passes along instructions and at times some rather bulky packets shaped like wads of American money. How I wish I'd had your ears with me today, Cullen. The clang and clatter of a garage is not conducive to eavesdropping at all."

Holmes slid down the wall to sit on the floor, back against the wall as he stared at the pink and yellow floral wallpaper opposite him. Neither of us ever sat on the bed so as to avoid leaving indentations on the thin quilt that served as the bed's main covering. It wouldn't do to have the apartment's tenant wonder who'd been sitting on his bed while he was at work. I rarely sat down and was only lurking in the apartment because I needed shelter from the daytime sun due to my condition. I rarely saw the inside of the cabin Holmes rented for me, and I'd only been out there once or twice when I'd needed to take advantage of the deer in the forest nearby, or change my clothes.

It was better to stick close by Murphy's Buffalo headquarters in case something important happened that Holmes needed to know about.

He tilted his head to look up at me.

"What about you? Did you hear anything helpful?"

I sighed. I hated disappointing the man, but there'd been nothing terribly useful that day.

"Since morning there's been only O'Donovan and a younger man doing paperwork. They spoke mainly of the past. O'Donovan mentioned something about Clan na gael. Have you heard of it?"

"Clan na gael?" Holmes repeated. His eyes grew fixed on a point across the room as he concentrated. "They were established in this country in 1867. They're a splinter group of the Fenian movement, known for their extremist views. After the leaders of the Molly Maguires were captured, Clan na gael became the most vocal of the Irish societies on the eastern seaboard and their sister organizations back home were involved in several bombings in the 1880s. What did O'Donovan say of them?"

"Not much," I admitted. "He seemed to find them more admirable than Murphy's gang."

"Undoubtedly. Judging by his age and the toleration accorded him by the more patriotic of my colleagues, O'Donovan was probably one of the original Clan na gael members."

"Was he involved in the bombings?"

It was incredible to me to think of the bleary eyed old man who went down the alley to throw his bundle of garbage in the ashcans as a bomber.

Holmes smiled tiredly. "O'Donovan has never been out of the country. Like many Irish Americans, he longs for a free Ireland that he'll never see. Besides, bombers have a relatively short life expectancy. Very few live to old age."

He pulled out his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glared at it.

"And I shall not make it to my well deserved retirement if I'm late for Murphy's meeting. I'll see you afterwards at the usual place."

I nodded and watched him leave the way he'd come.

Soon the apartment across the alley filled with men, including Holmes' alter ego, Altamont. In the general clamor of several conversations going on at once, I picked out his voice despite the false Irish brogue, and another familiar one. Michael O'Malley was in the room.

Murphy entered and all fell silent.

"We've a job ahead lads," he told them.

There were murmurs of agreement and approval. He waited until they died down, then continued.

"Ye won't know when until right beforehand, so be ready. I'll be sending word, and when ye get the message, be ready t' go. This time we fight for Ireland."

Cheers erupted, and footsteps led the way downstairs. No doubt the small bar area of the restaurant would be packed tonight. I was about to leave the apartment myself to go stand in the alleyway below as the sky was getting dark and the shadows would be longer, when I realized Murphy and a few others hadn't left yet. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window and listened.

"We could have a problem." It was a voice I didn't recognize, a strong one gone flat with utmost seriousness.

"What is it?" Murphy asked gruffly.

"Michael O'Malley."

"He'll come through for ye," O'Donovan assured with boozy certainty. "I knew his da. The O'Malleys are true to the cause."

"I knew his father too," Murphy said evenly. "Peter O'Malley saved my life. That doesn't mean Michael is cut from the same cloth."

The sound of shoes scraping across a wood floor told me that Murphy had turned his back on the old man to face the other one.

"What's the problem?"

"He may not have what it takes to kill the girl. He's been asking questions."

"Questions?"

"What's the best way? The fastest way so there's no pain? Things like that."

Murphy was silent for a long moment. O'Donovan moved uncertainly, shuffling his feet, but settled without speaking.

"I'll send Cormac and Moran to watch from below when I send word to Michael to kill the girl. If Michael won't do it, they'll finish the job, and him as well."

"Ye can't…" came O'Donovan's voice, aghast.

"I said 'if'" Murphy's voice cut across his like a whip. "Have some faith in the lad," he finished derisively.

"And the whore?" asked the other voice, insistent.

"Moira'll come back with Michael and go back to the house, or stay and be buried with him," came Murphy's reply. I knew by the way he said the word that 'house' referred to the house of ill repute where Moira was employed.

"I thought you were going to give her to Michael if she looked after the kid?" the other questioned slyly.

"Aye," agreed O'Donovan. "He dotes on her, that he does."

"Michael will do as he's told," Murphy said coldly. "Leave me now. I've work to do."

O'Donovan and the other man left in silence.

I stayed glued to the wall, my mind processing what they'd said, and trying to find a way to get word to Holmes. I wanted to go straight to Michael O'Malley and shake him until he told me where the girl was hidden. Who else could 'the girl' be but little Miss Erikson? And Murphy was determined to have her killed. I knew I couldn't so much as touch a hair on Michael O'Malley's head without possibly jeopardizing Holmes' investigation. Yet could I stand by and allow a child to die? Or leave her in the hands of a prostitute who was perhaps mentally unstable?

Holmes wouldn't be at our meeting point, a small park bench outside the railway station, for several hours. The drinking frenzy after official meetings was where he retrieved some of his best information. From what Murphy said, his plan was about to come to fruition. But what was it? And why did he need all the guns he'd stockpiled in the warehouse on the lake?

It wouldn't happen tonight, I reminded myself. Murphy wouldn't have sent his men downstairs to drink themselves into a stupor if he needed them. There was some time yet. I had to believe that.

Pulling myself away from the window, I prepared to leave when I realized someone had come back into the room with Murphy.

It was the man who'd been there before, talking about O'Malley.

"O'Donovan's downstairs putting a flea in O'Malley's ear about what will happen if he doesn't kill the girl. Do you think it will be enough?"

"It better be. I've got the message right here ready to go."

There was a slight crinkle as if Murphy set his finger against some paper.

"When will you send it?"

"You know better than to ask. I'll send word when I get word. Like always."

A chair's legs scraped across the floor and there was a slight creak as the other man sat in it before speaking.

"Do you never want to call the shots yourself, Sean Murphy? Do you never wonder what it would be like to give the orders, all the orders?"

Murphy snorted. "Another test is it? Don't be daft. Tell your bosses that I'm loyal, and I'll stay loyal so long as I get to run things in Chicago as I see fit."

The man laughed.

"I like you, Murphy. You're as suspicious as they are. Send word when it's finished."

As I listened to the conversation across the alley I became aware of another sound, a sound that I dreaded.

Footsteps, slow and weary, were making their way up the steps toward the apartment where I stood pressed against the window. The apartment's true tenant was coming. I had to leave.

Dropping my hands to the sash, I curled my fingernails under the bottom of the window and pushed it up and open. Shoving my head out, I saw that the alley below was thankfully empty so I climbed out, twisted my body around and held on to the sill. It only took a second to close the window behind me and loosen my hold.

I dropped to the alley, landing quietly on the balls of my feet and stood. There was a lot to tell Holmes tonight. I couldn't afford to linger, not with Sean Murphy in the vicinity, already suspicious over my supposed death. I slipped out of the alley and made my way to our rendezvous point.

o-o-o

Holmes sat on the bench outside the railway station. It was near deserted this time of night, and quiet. I stood near the streetlight and kept an eye out for anyone who might have followed him.

"So, Michael O'Malley is the one holding the Erikson girl hostage."

Holmes leaned forward and rested his elbows against his knees, the picture of a laborer who'd had a bit too much to drink and was sitting a while to muster the strength to walk home. Even in the dark hours before dawn, his posture and position were in keeping with his charade, though his voice was his own, clear, businesslike and without a hint of an Irish accent.

"The whore they mentioned is indeed Moira," he went on quietly. "When I asked after her, they said she'd left the brothel. No one knew where she'd gone. I believe Murphy sent her to look after the Erikson girl, and as an incentive to keep Michael O'Malley focused on his job."

Moving away from the streetlight, I sat down next to Holmes.

"Should I go back and follow O'Malley to where he's keeping the girl?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head.

"Michael O'Malley is currently sleeping off his evening excesses. He's due to leave tomorrow morning. I managed to get that much out of him before he passed out and was taken back to his rooming house. He appeared to be a man struggling with a moral dilemma. This is hopeful news for the Erikson girl's survival, but not so good for Michael and his Moira."

"Then you think Murphy's threat to send the two men to watch Michael was real and not a bluff to frighten him into complying?" It would be just like Murphy to create and prey upon the boy's fears, and to dupe an old man into spreading such fears.

"To a man like Sean Murphy, disobedience is nothing short of betrayal. Unlike you, he has no compassion, no sense of common humanity. People are tools to be used and discarded with as little emotion as it takes to throw a scrap of paper into a fire once it's served its purpose."

"Is that how you see me?" I asked, astonished.

I cared for people, for my patients. I couldn't seem to help being interested in their lives, hopes, and dreams. People were endlessly fascinating to me. I didn't know that it showed, beyond what was expected of a doctor.

Holmes threw me a quick grin.

"My dear Dr. Cullen, I've spent the majority of my adult life surrounded by criminals, either chasing them or pretending to be one of their number. I know Murphy's type very well, and I assure you that you are more humane than he could ever be."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said, embarrassed.

He seemed to sense it for he quickly changed the subject, turning his head back to stare across the street at a wadded up newspaper skittering across the pavement, at the mercy of a gust of night air.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to keep a closer watch on the headquarters. There'll be no respite for you at the cabin tonight."

"That's quite alright, you know I don't need sleep."

Another night lurking in the shadows of the alley by the restaurant was no great imposition, especially since I'd fed on deer a few nights ago.

Holmes nodded, and removed his green cap to smooth his hair back before replacing it on his head.

"I'm counting on it. Murphy has been sending and receiving messages. I need to know how, or at the very least when he receives one from his masters telling him to act. We'll have little warning before he strikes. He made that quite clear tonight in his speech."

"Do you know where he means to strike?"

"No," Holmes admitted quietly. "There are certain banks here in Buffalo with some financial ties to England. That's one possibility. There are at least two officials in the city government who've been thwarting the rise of Irish secret societies. That's another possibility. Four decades or so ago a group of Fenians crossed the lake and invaded Canada, taking control of Fort Erie in their attempt to invade Ontario, but the Fort is now in ruins. Canada is a united country well able to defend itself, and not as vulnerable as it was back then. Chicago is another possibility. Murphy may prefer to use men from Buffalo and send them overland so that the authorities in Chicago will not be able to identify them, but we're back to the same problem. We've a list of possible targets, and no way to warn or guard all of them. There are no British officials ripe for assassination visiting Chicago or Buffalo presently. I'm at a loss, and I don't like it."

It was a measure of Holmes frustration that he'd share that last bit of information with me. He wasn't the sort of man to complain.

"I'll find out what I can," I told him. It sounded lame even to my own ears.

"That's all I ask," he said firmly. "I've had successes and failures in my career, and it's the failures that haunt me at night. I'd prefer not to add another to their ranks. Come to me at the garage the instant Murphy makes a move."

"I'll do that."

Heaving himself wearily to his feet, the detective tipped his cap to me and staggered off, as if drunk. I knew by watching him that while the drunkenness was feigned, the weariness was not. The case was taking a far greater toll on him than it was on me.

Returning to the restaurant, I started at the front sidewalk, and circled it as a thought struck me. The lights were off inside and in all the windows above. I listened and heard only snores and the even respiration of sleepers. Feeling slightly foolish, I dropped to my knees and placed my ear against the sidewalk. Under the pavement, insects moved in the dirt below. It sounded solid, though I doubt I would have known if a secret passage lay beneath the restaurant unless someone was walking through it.

I got up as quickly as I could and whisked around the side of the building through the alley, glancing searchingly along the wall as I went. There were no side doors, no cracks or joins in the wall showing a place of egress. The back of the building had a very old fire escape. It was useable, but noisy since it was made of metal. The few times gang members chose to leave via it instead of the front door of the building or through the restaurant, I heard them most clearly. The other side of the building was so close to the apartment building next to it that a cat would find it difficult to pass between them.

I lay my face against the crack between the two stone buildings and scanned both but didn't see any way one could pass from one to the other. This street was not yet wired for electricity or the new fangled telephones, not that anyone in the working class neighborhood could afford one.

The mystery of how Sean Murphy was getting messages remained impenetrable. Frustrated, I leapt to the roof and scanned the area all around from above, startling some sleepy pigeons into cooing. As I suspected there were no hot air balloons hidden away, or bows with messages tied to arrows ready to be shot across to confederates. Besides, the 'twang' of a bowstring was unmistakable. I'd have heard it.

I sat down next to a set of cages were pigeons roosted, blissfully ignorant of the fact that they were probably being raised to serve as someone's dinner. There were rabbit hutches as well, and I knew from my sense of smell that the restaurant below served rabbit stew. The rabbits were a little more sensible of the danger I presented and began to hop worriedly in their cages so I left, jumping across to my habitual building. I spent the rest of the night staring across at Murphy's abode from the roof.

To Be Continued.

A/N: Leave a review, and let me know what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning Michael O'Malley drove up to the restaurant. I recognized the vehicle as one used by various gang members. He left the borrowed automobile parked in front as he stopped by the greengrocer next door. A few minutes later he came out carrying a box containing potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. He placed the box in the automobile and walked a ways down the street to visit the baker, and returned carrying a large loaf of bread, which he added to the box.

As I watched from the rooftop, he leaned against the side of his vehicle and rubbed his temples with his hands, sighing deeply before straightening and walking into the restaurant. I noticed that his light brown hair needed trimming where it stuck out from under the grey cap on his head. Other than that he was unremarkable, a young working man on a lunch break, or an errand, just like hundreds of others.

The tenant of the apartment where I usually watched from was home sick today. The weariness I'd heard in his footsteps the night before was the precursor to a fever and chills. It wasn't serious, not yet anyways, and if he continued to rest up he'd likely be back to work by week's end. Until then, I'd have to perch on the rooftop. Even though it was overcast, I couldn't afford to be seen by any gang members.

Murphy was asleep in the apartment so he didn't speak to Michael. Instead the restaurant owner talked to him briefly, and passed him a piece of paper, likely a note from Murphy, sending him on his way with a small cage of pigeons from the rooftop. I smiled sourly. It looked like Michael would be dining on squab tonight. I hoped he and his Moira were feeding their captive as well.

Just as O'Malley was starting the car, Murphy woke and poked his head out of a second story window to watch him leave. I flattened myself against the roof and used my ears instead of my eyes.

Murphy simply grunted and returned to his room to begin his morning ablutions. The restaurant opened for lunch. People came and went, and then a different automobile came and parked out front.

The driver got out and wandered into the restaurant. He was a short man, with whiskers and bushy sideburns, and the restaurant owner called him 'Cormac'. I leaned further over the side of the roof when I heard the name, remembering that he was one of two men Murphy planned to send to be sure Michael murdered the little girl.

Cormac turned to glare at a carriage which passed overly close to the automobile, and I saw that he had brown eyes and a thick red scar on his left temple and cheek. Someone had sewn it up inexpertly and it healed badly. Then he was inside the restaurant lost to sight, asking about the mid-day meal.

Holmes showed up soon afterwards. I dropped off the roof, landing in the alley and intercepted him before he was half way down the block.

"The apartment is occupied," I said softly as I passed him by, continuing down the street as if I didn't know him.

Anyone could look out the front windows over the restaurant and see us. While I doubted that Murphy could recognize me from the back of my head, it wouldn't do to have him see Holmes talking to a fair haired man unknown to him. I couldn't afford to do anything that would make him suspicious of Holmes.

Holmes stopped at the next shop, a bakery, and purchased a fragrant roll which he tucked into a pocket. He proceeded to walk away from the restaurant to meet me in the alley around back.

"What news?" he asked.

"Nothing, save that Michael O'Malley left with food supplies in an automobile. The one called Cormac left his car out front a little while ago."

He nodded.

"I saw it. How long ago did O'Malley leave?"

"About an hour and some minutes ago."

"He complained last night of a long drive. When I pressed him, he said it took him an hour and a half, which means he's probably nearing his destination."

I realized from his expression that Holmes was mentally considering a map of the Buffalo environs, and figuring how far away Miss Erikson might be.

"Is that helpful?" I asked doubtfully. Considering that O'Malley could've gone off in any direction simply by turning at a crossroads out of sight of the restaurant, I didn't see how useful the information was.

"Every bit of information is useful in its own way," Holmes reminded me. He took his newly purchased roll out of his pocket and took a bite out of it.

I concealed an approving smile. Holmes had a tendency to forget to eat while concentrating on the case.

At that moment I heard Murphy's voice from inside the restaurant telling Cormac to collect Moran and get to the quarry.

"What is it?" asked Holmes, curious as to why I'd stiffened and tilted my head to place my ear in a direct line to where Murphy stood inside the restaurant, separated from us by the wall.

"Holmes, I think this is it. Murphy just told Cormac and Moran to get to a quarry."

The detective's eyes widened slightly, and he dropped the roll onto the dirt for the rats to find later.

"The quarry? You're sure he said quarry?"

"Yes." If there was one thing I could count on, it was my sense of hearing.

"There's only one quarry over an hour's drive from town. They must be keeping the girl there. If Murphy is ready to let go of his hold over Erikson, then it is indeed time. Come, Cullen. We must make it to the quarry before they do. I've an automobile nearby."

Nodding my head, I started to follow Holmes out the back alley, when movement overhead caught my eye. It was a pigeon, flying away from the roof. Pigeons seemed to congregate overhead, flying to and fro, attracted to their captive fellows on the roof no doubt. Something nagged at my attention about the birds and then it came to me.

"Holmes," I grabbed at his elbow, stopping him.

"What is it?"

"The pigeons. I believe I know how Murphy gets his messages from his superiors and how he sends them on."

His eyes strayed to the top of the building as realization dawned.

"And Holmes, one just left."

His expression hardened. "Then we've little time to lose. That bird must be carrying the message commanding O'Malley to kill Miss Erikson, if Cormac and Moran are being sent to view the corpse. Birds fly faster than automobiles, and don't need to keep to the roads."

We ran through the alley. I allowed Holmes to lead me, matching my pace to his as he took back streets until we reached his vehicle.

He crank started it and drove us quickly but competently out of town. He seemed to know where he was going so I stayed silent since I did not. I hadn't known that memorizing a map of Buffalo's outlaying areas was needed, or I would have done so. There was much more to the detective business than I realized.

As we came to the main road leading away from the city, I heard the unmistakable sound of Cormac and Moran's car just ahead.

"Holmes! They're directly ahead!"

From his compressed lips and serious expression, I realized that the road we were on was the only road leading to the quarry, and that we wouldn't be able to pass Murphy's confederates without them noticing us. Then it came to me.

I touched the detective's sleeve to get his attention, and he glanced away from the road in front of him to look at me.

"Do you trust me?" I yelled over the din of the car noise.

"Of course."

"Then pull over."

He didn't waste time asking questions, he simply slowed the car and pulled it off the road, stopping by a hedge enclosing a farmer's field.

Without bothering to keep to human speed I disembarked and ran around the front of the vehicle to open Holmes' door, turning away from him to face the road.

"Get on my back," I ordered.

He hesitated for only a second, then understood what I was about. Wrapping his arms about my neck and his legs around my torso, he held on as I began to run, jumping the hedge and cutting across the field, which was luckily fallow.

"I can run faster than their car, but you'll have to guide me," I threw over my shoulder.

Holmes growled an assent, his heart beat quicker than normal as I carried him faster than he'd ever traveled before. I worried for a moment that the pace would be too much for him, then allayed my fears with the fact that if we didn't beat not only the two Irishmen ahead of us, but the pigeon as well, then a child's life could be cut short.

Trees, green fields, and rocky hillsides whipped past us as I raced along. Holmes was able to keep us on course to the quarry, but since we had to avoid the road and any possible witnesses in small villages and farms, it was taking longer than I'd thought. It seemed every farmer had a task that day that kept him out of doors and in our way.

Was the pigeon I saw flying off the roof the one carrying the orders to kill Miss Erikson, or had Murphy sent an earlier one prior to sending off Cormac and Moran? There was no way of knowing since I hadn't been paying attention to the pigeons. I'd been remiss.

It was the last mountain that delayed us most irritatingly. There was a village below it, and the whole side of the mountain was sheer cliff face. With no way to traverse it without being seen by the inhabitants, we had to back track dangerously close to the road. I could hear the engine of the automobile, which had taken the direct route, coming up the road as I dashed across it and plunged through the bushes on the other side at Holmes' urging.

All of a sudden the greenery fell away and we were confronted by an enormous pit. Terraced ledges showed where the heart of the mountain was excavated and toppled cubes of stone lay strewn in profusion at the bottom of the pit.

The engine came closer. I ignored it for there was movement at the top of the mountain. Along the lip of greenery edging the top of the disemboweled stone was a small shack with a wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney. In front of the shack, at the very edge of the pit a man stood with a bundle at his feet, partly obscured by the weeds clinging to the last bit of dirt before the mountainside sheered away vertically.

I craned my neck to look up at him, coming to a stop under a spreading tree. Even from the great distance between us, I could see that it was Michael O'Malley. He was looking off to my right, at the point where the road came to the pit floor.

Just as I turned my head to ask Holmes what to do, Cormac and Moran's car pulled to a screeching halt, wheels throwing up stone fragments as they braked.

At the same moment, O'Malley kicked the bundle at his feet.

It fell over the edge, a mass of boneless blue and white, the skirts of the blue coat belling outward as arms and legs splayed out like an inanimate rag doll, the head lolling grotesquely under its matching blue hat. Heads weren't meant to crane in that fashion, I thought as the rag doll dropped and landed behind one of the discarded boulders, raising a cloud of dust from the impact.

I could hear the faint cooing of a pigeon coming from behind O'Malley at the top of the cliff.

We were too late. The message had already been delivered.

To Be Continued.

A/N: Please leave a review and let me know what you think.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Holmes sucked in a breath, aghast at the sight of the blue-coated figure falling to the quarry floor.

We were safely hidden from sight under the tree where I'd paused when we came upon the quarry. I didn't need Holmes to tell me to shrink back a bit so that the tree trunk would conceal us from Cormac and Moran as well as O'Malley.

The two Irishmen had seen the falling object just as we had. Now that they'd turned the engine off and were getting out of their automobile, it wasn't safe to talk, for they'd hear whatever I had to say to Holmes.

Cormac took his cap off and waved it, staring upward. From the top of the cliff O'Malley took his off and waved back as well, then turned and disappeared inside the shack.

"Should we go get her?" asked Cormac's companion, a thin, slatternly man whose clothes looked and smelled as if they hadn't been washed in a month.

"No, let O'Malley clean up his own mess," Cormac replied.

"Shouldn't we check to be sure she's dead?"

It was clear Moran was asking more for form's sake than with any real intention of going to see, for he was leaning against the automobile staring with a distinct lack of enthusiasm at the tangle of boulders and half hewn stones between him and the cliff's bottom where the dust still drifted in the air from the impact. It would be a long and arduous hike to get over all the rocky obstacles in the way.

"Don't be daft. Leave her for the animals to pick over. She must've been dead before she fell, else we'd have heard her scream. Besides, nothing could survive that fall."

I felt a grimace mar my face. I could survive it, quite easily. Holmes hands fisted against my collarbone. He was concentrating intently on the Irishmen's conversation.

Cormac glanced around the quarry one last time. "There's nothing else for us here. Let's go back."

They got into their automobile and drove away.

"There's no blood smell," I told Holmes as soon as they were gone. "It's not her."

Holmes gave a dry chuckle.

"Thank you for the reassurance, Cullen. I admit when the girl's stuffed coat and hat first fell I had a bad moment, but like you I saw the disposition of the supposed body and knew that it couldn't be Miss Erikson. Real bodies, whether living or corpses, have an unmistakable look to them. Luckily Cormac and Moran didn't notice. Most likely they were the ones Murphy sent to kidnap her, so they recognized her clothing."

He tapped my shoulder and pointed to the little shack above, perched on the cliff's edge.

"Shall we pay a visit to Michael O'Malley?"

I nodded, and began the tedious leaping ascent up the mountain, finding footholds on the terraces cut into the side of the abused peak.

At the top I paused to loosen my grip on Holmes' legs, and he slid gracefully off my back, straightening his lapels and clearing his throat before walking up to the door of the shack and knocking briskly.

"He has a gun," I warned Holmes softly, coming to stand by his side. I'd heard O'Malley cocking it as soon as Holmes' hand touched the door.

Thankfully I also heard two other sets of heartbeats besides his, one adult and one child, both smelling faintly of rosewater.

"Who is it?" came Michael O'Malley's tenor voice, trying not to quaver with fear and doing a horrible job of it.

"A friend, should you choose to believe it," answered Holmes.

I was surprised to hear him using his own voice, not Altamont's lilting brogue.

"What friend?" Michael asked cautiously.

"The only friend standing between you and Sean Murphy's vengeance when he finds out you disobeyed him, now open this door," Holmes said curtly. "I've very little time, and neither do you."

A woman gasped and a child whimpered inside. I couldn't see inside the shack, but I could well imagine the man's face wracked with indecision. I was about ready to offer to rip the door off its hinges and disarm the man when the door opened carefully and O'Malley stood in the doorway, gun pointed directly at Holmes.

"Altamont?"

O'Malley's brow creased momentarily in surprise when he saw Holmes, trying to reconcile the English accented voice he'd heard with the Irish brogue he'd expected. Then his expression hardened, and he shifted to the side to fill the doorway. He stood in such a way that he blocked our view of the right side of the shack, the side from which the two others' heartbeats came so clearly.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he tried to bluster.

"Of course you do. Cullen?"

At Holmes' use of my name I stepped forward in front of the detective and pulled the gun from O'Malley's hand before he could pull the trigger, making sure that the muzzle was tight against my palm in case of a misfire.

The man stared at his empty hand and then at me, his mouth opening to an 'O' of surprise. Holmes took advantage of that surprise and shoved his way past the man, trusting me to keep O'Malley in his place as he strode over to the cot where a very pretty dark haired woman had her arms protectively around the shoulders of a young girl.

Miss Erikson was one of those pale blonde children who look ethereal and fragile. Her eyes were open, but unfocussed, and she turned her head slightly at Holmes' movement toward her, drawing closer to the woman who was glaring daggers at Holmes.

Ignoring Moira's piercing stare, Holmes dropped to his knee and said gently, "Miss Erikson, I'm here to rescue you."

"Who are you?" the child burst out. Her sightless gaze made her appear to be staring over Holme's left shoulder.

"How do we know you're not one o' Murphy's lot, come to trick us?" the woman asked harshly.

Holmes looked at her appraisingly.

"You don't know, you have only to consider that my associate over there has the gun and is not using it on you, the child, or Mr. O'Malley."

The detective lifted his hands and splayed them to show he was unarmed.

"I'm here to help, not to hurt."

Moira looked over Holmes' head at O'Malley, who stood, hands fisted and face taut with emotion.

"You're not Irish," he accused Holmes.

Holmes stood and faced him, arms folded.

"I'm not," he agreed. "But all you really need to know is that in revealing myself to you, I place myself at your mercy just as I ask you to place yourself at mine."

"Why should I trust you? Either of you?" he cast a nervous glance at me. "I don't even know your real name."

Holmes smiled.

"Altamont is as good a name as any. You may keep calling me that. If you don't agree to my proposal and Murphy catches up with you, I'd just as soon he not torture my real name out of you."

Moira gulped. The child seemed to sense her fear, and nestled closer to her. My heart went out to her. She appeared to trust Moira, and Moira was fearful of us. While I was happy to see the affection between the two, for it implied that she'd not been ill-used, Moira's emotions were influencing the little girl.

I came to stand beside Holmes and addressed Moira respectfully.

"I'd like to examine Miss Erikson, if I may." I smiled reassuringly at her, and used all the charm at my disposal. "I have some medical training and I'd like to be sure she hasn't suffered from her ordeal."

I locked my gaze on Moira's eyes and saw that they were a beautiful shade of brown, warm and expressive. They softened as she gazed back at me.

"It wasn't an ordeal," the child muttered, and put her arm firmly around Moira's waist, laying her head on the woman's shoulder.

Surprise and pleasure warred with each other for dominance in the woman's expression as she wrenched her gaze from mine to look at the fair-haired child holding on to her so fiercely.

"I beg your pardon," I apologized. The child couldn't see my face, so I'd have to use words to allay her fears. "I meant no disrespect to your…guardians. I merely want to be sure you've been eating enough and getting enough sleep. There also may be some adverse effects of the chloroform used on you."

"She's fine," insisted Moira. "I'd not let any harm come to her!"

Holmes stood and retreated a few paces backward so we wouldn't both be towering over the pair seated on the bed. He answered Moira, but he looked at O'Malley as he spoke.

"I believe you. You've taken good care of Miss Erikson. No one can deny that, especially if a doctor's examination confirms it. Will you allow my associate that much?"

It was a reasonable request, and the two seemed to realize it as they stared questioningly at each other. Michael O'Malley answered after a moment, and Moira allowed him to speak for the both of them.

"Examine away," he waved a hand resignedly in the air. "But we stay with her the whole time," he added warningly.

"You've made the right choice."

Upon hearing Holmes' words, the defiance went out of the man. He made his way to a small table and sat on one of the chairs next to it. There wasn't much in the way of furniture in the shack, but what there was had been freshly dusted, and the floorboards were clean enough to eat from. I didn't know prostitutes turned jailors were so adept at housework, then I reflected that Moira probably hadn't wanted to be a prostitute. There was a high collar on her pale pink blouse, but the marks of the noose she'd used to try to hang herself were just visible under her ear when she'd turned her head to look at O'Malley.

"Did you hear that, Jenny?" she said softly to the child. "I'll be right here. I won't let him hurt you."

As I winced at the way Moira phrased her reassurances, I noticed that she and Miss Erikson were on first name terms.

"Perhaps the gentlemen would step outside for the examination?" I suggested. "I'm sure they have much to discuss," I told the woman.

Sensing Holmes' impatience and realizing that he was eager to return to Buffalo, I handed him the firearm and he led Michael O'Malley outside. It was best that he convince the man to do the right thing without the distraction of his ladylove. For he did love Moira very much. I could see it in his eyes when he cast a last speaking glance at Moira on his way out the door. The signs were unmistakable. Murphy must have seen them too.

My examination of Miss Jenny Erikson was brief and non-invasive. Her cuticles were normal, not retracted as they'd have been had she starved. The skin on her hand was elastic and when gently pinched it retreated to its former state, showing that she was well hydrated. I placed my head against her back and had her breathe and cough. Her lungs were clear of fluids, her heartbeat and pulse were both strong, and she'd bathed recently too. The child was perfectly healthy and when I told her so, she and Moira both smiled.

There was one last thing I needed to know, for myself and not for Holmes.

"May I look into your eyes, Miss Erikson?" I asked, taking on the non-threatening, dispassionate tone I did with adults who were wary of doctors. From her lack of surprise at my examination, I had the feeling she'd been examined many times before.

She sighed and sat still as I brought my face to hers. Usually I'd focus a light on a patient's eyes when examining them, but I could manage just as well without.

"There's nothing to be done," the girl told me sadly, her breath puffing in my face.

"I see," I said. And I did. The nerve was completely dead in one eye and nearly destroyed in the other.

"It was the pitchfork," she confided matter of factly. "I jumped from my cousin's hayloft and fell right on it. I bled an awful lot, and broke both my legs. I was really little when it happened so I don't remember much."

"Even so, that must have been horrible for you," I commiserated as Moira patted the girl's back.

"I don't understand," the woman burst out, turning her expressive brown eyes toward me. "How could a pitchfork in the stomach and broken bones make her go blind?"

Jenny crossed her arms and sighed. They'd evidently had this conversation before.

I leaned back on my heels from where I was kneeling in front of the child and explained.

"When the body is grievously injured, it fights to survive. When it's losing blood and struggling, it takes blood from other places, places that aren't completely vital, like the eyes. When the eyes are cut off from blood they die. Miss Erikson's body chose to let her eyes die in order to make sure the rest of her lived."

"Is there nothing that can be done?" asked Moira.

I shook my head slowly.

"Perhaps in the future," I offered. "Perhaps with new advances in medicine there may be a procedure one day that can help."

Moira sighed and stared down at her hands clasped in her lap.

One of Jenny Erikson's hands crept over and covered Moira's.

"It isn't fair," Moira observed bleakly.

I realized she wasn't referring simply to Jenny's plight. What must she have suffered before turning to a noose to alleviate her situation? No surgery or medication could heal those unseen wounds.

"No, it isn't," I agreed gently. "There are many things that aren't fair. Our only recourse is to make fair the things we can control. As you did when you and Mr. O'Malley chose not to hurt Miss Erikson."

Moira's eyes began to brim with tears. As the silence continued, the child sitting next to her grew restive.

"Can I go home now?"

Jenny sounded very young as she asked the question with the air of one who'd asked several times before. It served to jolt the older woman out of her self-absorption. She put her arms around the child and hugged her close.

"Soon, I promise."

I hoped Holmes would be able to keep that promise.

I wandered outside to find that he and O'Malley had come to an understanding.

"Ah, there you are," Holmes greeted me. "Mr. O'Malley has agreed to turn evidence against Sean Murphy should he go to trial. As it happens, Michael here wasn't in on the kidnapping itself. He merely suggested that Miss Moira be appointed caretaker of the child and himself as guard after she was captured. It's a nice distinction that I'm sure the prosecutor will take into consideration once he hears that O'Malley conspired to fool Murphy into thinking the girl dead in order to save her life."

O'Malley nodded, appearing a bit dazed by Holmes' account.

"As it stands, O'Malley will be leading the ladies down the mountain. He's agreed to not only to stay with them, but to retrieve the car Murphy loaned him and to drive it to Chicago to a little flat I've rented in the Italian quarter where they'll be safe enough until the current situation blows over."

"Just as soon as I kill those damned pigeons," O'Malley said, sending a hateful glare to the pigeon coop around the side of the shack. The glare didn't suit his youth or the mouth that I had yet to see smile.

"Oh no," Holmes disagreed. "You may do what you like to the one Murphy sent with the order to kill Miss Erikson, but you still must write him a message pretending the deed was done and send it on with one of the pigeons you brought back today. Be sure to do it before you leave this place."

"You said Cormac would tell him Jenny's dead," he objected.

"That he will, but he'll still be expecting a message from you in the usual way, won't he?"

Reluctantly, Michael nodded. "Tis why he sent the cage of them back with me."

"What did you plan to do with the girl?" I asked. I was curious. Surely Michael didn't think he'd be allowed to stay with Moira in the shack and kept Jenny hidden indefinitely?

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Take her with us maybe? When I heard Sean was ready to kill Moira if I didn't kill the girl, I didn't know what to do. I just knew Moira would never forgive me if I hurt Jenny. She loves her like a sister. I planned to run, but then I had the idea that I could buy us some time if I made it look like I'd killed Jenny."

"But how did you know Murphy would send men to check to be sure you'd killed her?"

Michael snorted. "You don't know Murphy. He always has eyes checking on you. He's a careful bastard, that one."

"And on that note," Holmes said, taking out his pocket watch, "we must be off to avoid suspicion. If I may trouble you for a ride once we reach the tree line?" he asked, eyebrows raised humorously.

I nodded, ignoring Michael's puzzled look. We said our farewells and strode into the forest until the shack disappeared from view. Then I took Holmes up again on my back, and ran.

o-o-o

The trip back to Buffalo seemed much shorter now that I knew the lay of the land. We kept to the road as much as possible, Holmes' impatience to be back and in the thick of things rubbing off on me. Since I remembered where the villages and houses were, I was better able to run along the thoroughfare, leaving it only to bypass possible witnesses.

The day was waning when we returned, the lunch hour long gone.

"Will there be difficulties when you return to work?" I asked Holmes as we got into the automobile we'd left outside of the city limits.

Holmes backed the vehicle so he could turn around on the road and pointed the automobile back towards the town before speaking.

"I doubt it. I told my employer I'd be taking a long lunch. I felt it prudent after Murphy's announcement last night."

"Ah."

Holmes parked his automobile on a side street some distance away from his work place.

"Would you mind waiting here, Cullen? I'm off to find out what I've missed."

"Wouldn't it be better to go directly to the restaurant?" I asked. It was, after all, where Murphy was staying, perched like a spider in the center of a web.

"I must keep up appearances," Holmes explained patiently. "I, like the others, go only to the restaurant when summoned. There are two other gang members working at the garage. If Murphy plans to gather his army together, he'll send word to the workplaces where he's stationed us. Showing up at the restaurant uninvited would imply knowledge that I shouldn't have yet."

"Of course," I agreed. It seemed so obvious once Holmes explained.

He flashed me a quick grin, then sauntered away, hands in his pockets, whistling an old Irish drinking song, back into his role as Altamont.

I slumped in my seat, staring at the steering column and gearshift, and waited. Perhaps I'd ask Holmes later to explain the mechanics of his automobile. I was far more interested in the mechanics of the human body and how to fix it, but as Holmes said before, any piece of information could prove useful.

I didn't have long to wait before Holmes was back, jogging up to the window to poke his head in and say, "Murphy's already sent word for us to gather at the restaurant."

"Did he say what the target was?"

"No."

Holmes smacked his hand against the door.

"I still have no idea where he's planning to strike. Wherever it is though, he'll need guns. So far as I've been able to ascertain, he hasn't collected the guns from Erikson's warehouse yet. Whatever he's planning, he'll need them, and he can't get them until the warehouse employees leave."

His eyes narrowed as he thought furiously, then his gaze locked on mine.

"Can you spike a gun?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

Holmes explained that 'spiking' a gun meant rendering it useless. Removing the firing pin was a good way to do it, and as Holmes described the construction of the guns he'd delivered to Erikson's warehouse, I realized that snapping off the firing pins would be child's play for me.

"Go to the warehouse. Spike the guns, and be as discreet about it as possible."

"What about you?" I asked.

I didn't want to lose sight of the detective, and worried irrationally that something would happen to him if I weren't there to protect him. Holmes playing the part of an Irish hooligan working as a mechanic in a garage seemed much safer than Holmes in the midst of an entire slew of hooligans about to embark on who knew what sort of mischief.

"I'll be fine," he promised. "Now that Murphy is ready to make his move, he's bound to let a few more details slip out. Once I know more I can begin to take steps to thwart him. With luck, Murphy will send me to go collect the guns and I'll see you soon."

With that and the directions to the warehouse, I had to be satisfied as Holmes took the car and drove away.

As I walked quickly through the streets towards the lake I began to smell the unmistakable scent of a dockyard environment. The pungent odor of rotting wood pilings, waterlogged weeds, and tar from the vessels combined into a near-overwhelming impact on the senses.

I began to breathe through my mouth whenever I passed people, and not at all when I didn't.

The warehouse owned by Erikson was a large one, not quite on the water but only a street away. Though the day was winding down and the late afternoon sun fading, it was still a bustling place. I slipped around back to the storehouse area where the guns were hidden under tarpaulins left by Holmes and his Irish associate.

A window set high above gave me my point of entry, since the front entrance was far too busy. After a quick look around to be sure I was unobserved, I leapt up and dug my fingers into the sill, praying that it could take my weight.

The window frame was a sturdy one, as was the lock on the window. I broke it quickly, slid the window open, and dropped to the floor on the other side. There were several people in the building, the scent of their blood coming from the opposite end of the structure. All around me were wooden boxes, ready for shipping. I ghosted between them and some stacks of metal parts to the back. Making quick work of the tarpaulins, I opened the crates and found the weapons nestled in sawdust, just where Holmes said they'd be. It took only a flick of my thumb to divest the rifle of its firing pin. The pin clanked metallically as it hit the cement floor. Soon I was surrounded by little metal pins.

I moved on to the next crate, and then the next. By the time I finished, the sun was setting and the sound of activity on the other side of the warehouse diminished. I looked at the floor littered with pins and realized I needed a broom.

Two men were standing in front of the path I'd chosen through the boxes. I moved back and waited as I listened to their conversation.

"That's two bits you owe me, Swenson," one of them gloated. "I told you he'd yell at us again today."

"You've the luck of the devil," the other observed sourly, counting out two coins from his pocket and depositing them into his friend's hand.

"Twas a sucker's bet, you know. Erikson has been in a rare mood for weeks now. The littlest thing sets the man off."

"You're right. I'll not make a foolish bet like that again. I'm for home. Walk with me?"

"I'm for the pub," the other replied, and I heard him shake the loose change in his hand.

"Away with you then," harrumphed Swenson, stamping off as the bet's winner laughed at him.

The other paused to put the coins in his pocket than left as well. I glanced out between the two stacks of boxes where I'd hidden and caught sight of my prey, a push broom leaning against the far wall. There were people talking softly in the office area, but the rest of the workers had all gone home.

Racing across the warehouse floor, I retrieved the broom and was back at the far crates before anyone could see me. I brushed slowly, trying to cut down on the noise, and reflected that if my colleagues at the hospital could see me now they'd hardly think me arrogant.

As I toiled at the humble task, I smiled. Perhaps if my career as a doctor ever fell through I could earn my keep as a janitor.

When the metal bits were swept discreetly behind a set of boxes at the far corner of the warehouse I returned the broom and got to the cover of the stacks of boxes just as the office door opened and two men came out.

One had very light blonde hair and was wearing a nice suit of clothes, though the necktie was askew as if he'd pulled on it. When he looked into the other man's face, I saw the resemblance to Jenny in his nose and chin. This was Mr. Erikson.

The man he spoke to was stockier, his clothing rougher and at his right hip was a nightstick rather like the ones used by the town watch years ago. On his left in a holster was a pistol. His arms folded and his weight back on his heels, he was the picture of disagreement as he listened to Erikson.

"I told you, Olegson. I have no need of you tonight. I'm giving you the night off. Just take it man!"

"You shouldn't be alone," Olegson ground out. "And I don't want pay for a night's work not done. Let me stay."

"They said no one."

Erikson grabbed his nightwatchman's sleeve for emphasis.

"No one! I can't risk it. You have to go."

The entreaty and panic in the man's voice was unmistakable. Olegson stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and walked out of the warehouse.

Erikson watched him go, shoulders slumping as soon as his employee was out the door. As he passed by me to go back to his office, I could see the score marks of tension dug deep into his face and the fine lines of worry and stress patterned outward by eyes that looked bruised with dark circles.

I could only imagine the sleepless nights that caused those physical manifestations. The office door closed and I heard him begin to sob, deep despairing exhalations of grief. I shifted my feet and felt uncomfortable listening while knowing I couldn't say anything to him to ease his worries.

Retreating to the back of the warehouse, I sat down on one of the tarpaulins I'd used to recover Murphy's crates of guns. As I did, I heard a human heartbeat coming from outside the warehouse behind the wall at my side.

It was Olegson. He had to be hiding alongside the warehouse. While his loyalty was admirable, it presented a rather large problem. What would Olegson do when Murphy's men showed up? I didn't want Holmes to get shot by mistake. When it came down to it, I didn't want anyone shot, just captured and placed where they could do no more harm. I was under no illusions that Murphy or his men felt the same.

How far would I go to protect Holmes?

To be continued….

A/N: Please leave a review. I posted this chapter a lot earlier than I'd planned to so if I missed any mistakes I humbly apologize.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

They came a little after midnight. Erikson's tears were dried by then, and he'd turned on the electric switch by the office door, which caused light to blaze out from a row of bulbs suspended from the ceiling. It also caused shadows to appear, shadows that I used to good effect. Through the open door of the office, I saw the man, seated at a desk staring down at the pages of a Bible, lying on papers stacked on the blotter. Craning my neck, I caught sight of words written on the topmost page.

Last Will and Testament.

Erikson was prepared to die. The man was no fool. Deep down he must have known that the sort of criminals who'd kidnap a child wouldn't balk at murder. I'd seen such parental devotion before at the bedsides of dying children. Even when all hope was gone, they continued care assiduously for their child, speaking as though they'd be alive for the next birthday or Christmas, on the off chance of a miraculous recovery. What else could they do? What else could Erikson do but obey the kidnappers and hope for the best while preparing himself for the worst?

The Irishmen entered the warehouse as if they owned the place. They came in two vehicles, three gang members, and Holmes.

Erikson came to the doorway of his office and looked at them without speaking.

"You know what we're here for," one of the men said gruffly.

As he stepped into the light I saw the thick scar on his temple. He'd changed his clothes and wore a pea coat now, but it was Cormac. The man with him was Moran. I didn't know the one standing by Holmes, but he had hard eyes and grey beginning to appear in his hair and beard.

"Take it," Erikson offered. "Just don't hurt my daughter."

"She'll be fine so long as you cooperate," Cormac promised.

I hated him in that moment. Cormac thought Jenny was dead, yet still he used her to ensure Erikson's help.

Erikson shuddered. "She's not been…touched?" He could barely get the words out.

"She'll be in a brothel by this time tomorrow if ye don't let us do what we came here for," Moran said roughly.

"The crates are back this way, gents!" Holmes broke in as Erikson's face took on a sickened and angry cast. "No need to palaver about what'll never be, is there? Come now, whose for lending me a hand?"

He clapped Erikson on the shoulder and pushed the man in front of him.

Erikson staggered towards the looming stacks of boxes, caught himself and kept going. The nameless gang member followed, Moran close behind.

Cormac hung back, glaring at Holmes.

"I run the show, Altamont, not you."

"Of course, of course. But why not get a little work out of the man before we kill him?" Holmes stage-whispered to the man. "Those crates are heavy as we both have cause to know. Let him carry a few. The truck's ready to be loaded out front. After you,"

Holmes half bowed with a flourish.

Cormac cast him a contemptuous look and disappeared between the boxes.

Holmes paused, then quite deliberately took a wadded up bit of paper out of his pocket and threw it at the base of the boxes near where I stood in the shadows.

It took but a moment to retrieve it and retreat back to my position. I smoothed out the paper quickly. On one side was a crude map denoting the route from the restaurant to the warehouse. It was larger than need be and the sketch included a portion of docks on the next street over. There was a faint 'X' marked on the third pier.

They planned to strike a pier? It made no sense. Looking closer I saw that two crude boats were sketched in next to the pier. Then I understood. They were loading the guns to take to the pier to arm their men before embarking by boat. But where were they going? I heard two trucks pull up to the warehouse right before Murphy's men came in. It would take them a while to load up the weapons. They couldn't use them anymore, but wouldn't it be more difficult to catch them on the lake than on land?

Hoping that I'd guessed correctly, I slipped out of the warehouse and ran down to the docks.

At the third pier I saw men hanging about in the shadows of the warehouses closest to the water. There were at least thirty of them. I didn't need to hear the lilting brogues of their whispers to know they were Murphy's men, for he was there by one of two trawlers at the end of the pier. I saw him talking to an older man in a captain's cap.

Slinking back, I retreated until a turn in the shoreline hid me from view. I slipped off my shoes and coat and dashed across the boardwalk to dive into the water. Because of my weight I descended through the water like a rock. The bottom of the lake under the docks was all soft mud so my feet sank into it a few inches before kicking free.

Ascending a ways, I swam through the silence of the water, past one pier, then two, until I made it to the third one. The two boat keels loomed above me and I treaded water silently, the surface four feet above as I considered what to do. I could simply rip the bottoms out of the boats, but they'd sink immediately and rather spectacularly.

A thought came to me. The anchors of the two trawlers stuck out of holes in the sides of the ships. I'd been on ships before, and I knew there was a crank system to haul the anchors up and down on chains. I also knew that I was stronger than any crank mechanism devised.

Swimming underneath the trawler farthest from where Murphy was standing, I surfaced quietly next to its wooden hull. Gathering myself, I leapt and clung to the side of the boat, feeling it gently sway towards me as it took on my weight. Ghosting over the railing I found the anchor's chain and quietly snapped the bolt restraining it from falling. I kept my hand on it to keep it where it was then threw my leg over the railing, keeping my torso close to it to avoid sky lining myself.

Quietly, hand over hand, I lowered the anchor by its chain until I heard a faint thud as it sank into the lake silt below. I followed it, slicing quickly through the water to retrieve the metal anchor, continuing to walk through the silt until I came to the next trawler.

Luck was with me, for as I came closer, I heard Murphy's voice and the captain's receding. They were walking down the pier towards the men.

I left the anchor underneath the other trawler and surfaced to repeat my stunt. Once I had the second anchor on the lake floor I took their chains and tied them together, after looping one of the chains behind a pylon. They'd not be leaving without taking a chunk of the pier with them now.

How much time had passed? It was impossible to know in the silent dreamlike world under the lake. I had a feeling I'd been gone longer than I should, so I swam quickly back to where I'd entered the water. Ignoring my shoes and coat, I left them on the ground by a bit of coiled rope and raced back to Erikson's warehouse. Water sprayed from my hair and clothes as I ran. Not enough to dry me, but enough to stop me from dripping half of Lake Erie from me when I stopped short.

Olegson was crouched by the open door of the warehouse. Two trucks parked nearby were filled with crates I recognized. They'd loaded the trucks already. There was nothing stopping them from killing Erikson, and it looked like the loyal night watchman knew it.

In his hand was a gun, and he was aiming it through the open door.

"No," I breathed the word, and then I was on him, wrenching the gun from his hand and pulling him away, my palm over his mouth to prevent him from crying out. I dragged him quickly back behind the trucks. He struggled valiantly, but I was just too strong. I pulled his back against my chest.

"Stay still!" I whispered.

He quieted, breathing hard through his nose.

"If you want to help Mr. Erikson, you need to go get the police. You're one man against four, and they've all got guns as well. Without reinforcements it's hopeless. You need the police."

He snorted at that, and I remembered Holmes telling me of the city officials taking money from one of Murphy's men at the garage. Had some of those officials been police officers?

"Not those police, good ones. Surely there's someone on the police force you can ask for help?"

He thought for a moment then nodded grudgingly. Carefully, I lowered my hand from his mouth, but kept a grip on his chin. He hadn't seen me yet since I'd grabbed him from behind, and I didn't intend to show him my face.

"There's some," he admitted reluctantly. My brother in law, a few I served with in the army. They're all home in bed now."

"Then get them. There's a pier, the third one down. They'll be heading that way. Get as many men as you can and bring them. Don't tell anyone else but those you trust."

I tried to sound as serious as I could considering that fetching the police was simply an excuse to get the man away from the warehouse, though upon further reflection having reinforcements couldn't do much harm and might do a great deal of good. I'd have to trust in the man's judgment.

"There's damned few of those," he told me. "And who'll stand up for Erikson if I go?"

"I will," I promised rashly. "Jenny needs her father. I'll see that no harm comes to him."

He stopped breathing for a moment. At first I thought it was surprise that I knew Miss Erikson's Christian name.

"She's alive?"

"Yes."

He let out a long sigh of relief.

"I didn't think they'd let her live. Why would they? Erikson already gave them what they wanted."

What would Holmes say in a situation like this one? I decided to take a chance.

"They didn't plan to. One of their number, a Michael O'Malley, spared her life at great personal risk to himself. Remember that name."

"O'Malley," Olegson repeated. "I'd buy that man a drink any day."

"It'll be a moot point if you don't get going," I told him. From behind the trucks he couldn't hear what was going on in the warehouse, but I could. There were raised voices, an argument. I had to go.

I stood, dragging Olegson to his feet and shoved him into a stumbling run, ducking behind the trucks as soon as my hand left his back. He looked back once, over his shoulder, before running out of sight.

Taking his place by the open warehouse door, I looked in on a scene that made my dead heart leap within my chest.

Moran and Cormac stood, pistols held loosely in their hands, backs to the doorway. In front of them Erikson was kneeling, his back against a stack of boxes, a look of resigned dread on his face. Holmes was directly across from him, also armed with the third Irishman at his back, hand on the butt of his pistol, which was sticking out where he'd thrust the gun between his belt and his torso.

"What's the holdup, Altamont? Do you prefer shoving men off buildings? We haven't time to haul this one to the roof." Moran's hateful, derisive voice rang out.

"Just giving the man a chance to say his prayers," Holmes returned bitingly. "I'm a good Catholic, that I am."

"Shoot him," Cormac ordered, "or we'll shoot you. Decide now."

Olegson's gun lay at my feet where I'd dropped it after grabbing him. I felt its grip, solid in my hand.

I raised my chin, narrowed my eyes, and aimed.

A/N: Sorry for another cliffhanger! The end is near, I promise.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Here it is, the last chapter. Thanks to all my reviewers who've stuck with the story – especially those I couldn't email responses to like foggy and catnap. Your reviews kept me going.

CHAPTER TEN

Holmes was in trouble. I knew he couldn't bring himself to shoot an innocent man, but if he didn't, Cormac was poised and ready to kill him. I assumed Holmes was a perfect shot, but there were three of them arrayed in different directions.

I drew my hand back and threw the gun as hard as I could. It hit its target, the electric light switch by the office door, and all the lights went out at once.

Skirting Cormac and Moran, I ran past Holmes and whispered the word 'fire' to him. Scooping up Erikson, I threw him over my shoulder and heard him yelp in surprise just as Holmes obeyed me and I felt a bullet fly over my head to lodge in the ceiling above.

I was out the door with my burden and racing around the back of the warehouse in an instant. Remembering Moran's snide remark about shoving people off a roof, I gathered the shaken man to my chest and jumped upward, landing on the apex of the building as gently as possible.

With very little time to spare, I leaned in and whispered, "If you want to survive to see your daughter again, you'll stay up here and be quiet until someone fetches you down. I'm terribly sorry about this," I told him and drew my nail sharply into the flesh behind his ear.

Blood began to well up at once. He gasped and bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Cupping it in my hand, I let it pool there then with my other hand I drew a sodden handkerchief out of my pocket and pressed it over the wound.

I took Erikson's hand and pressed it against the wet handkerchief.

"Hold that there. The bleeding should stop soon."

There were no major arteries or veins behind the ear, just blood vessels, but because all head wounds bled profusely, I'd managed to collect enough. It smelled delightful. I stopped breathing, reminding myself of my vow not to taste human blood.

Leaving the dazed man behind, I jumped down from the roof and raced back to the warehouse. I scattered drops of blood in my wake and slipped into the darkened warehouse to drop the last of my handful on the spot where Erikson had been kneeling. The blood splattered into a cluster of droplets on the floor. I hoped it would be enough.

The three Irishmen were in the office searching for a lantern and matches and cursing the electric services of the city of Buffalo.

"I told you, I got him," Holmes said indignantly from the doorway of the office.

Cormac cursed him soundly and told him to shut his trap.

That's when I tapped Holmes on the shoulder.

"Bloodstains on the floor leading outside," I whispered, and retreated to the boxes just as Moran found a tin container of matches and struck one.

It took them five more burned out matches before they located an oil lantern and lit it.

Cormac immediately carried it over to where he'd had Erikson kneeling.

"He's not here," he observed.

"But there's blood! I did get him," Holmes returned smugly.

"Winged isn't the same as dead." The nameless third one said.

"He'll be dead before long. He can't have gone far. I'll find him and finish the job. You go on."

For a moment I thought that Cormac was going to object, then Moran shoved past him.

"Do as you like. Murphy wants the guns, and I'll not keep him waiting."

"Fine," Cormac agreed.

The third one just shrugged and left behind his fellows.

The trucks revved their motors and were off.

"Cullen?"

I was at Holmes' side in an instant.

"Yes?"

To his credit, he didn't start in surprise as I appeared in the lamplight, even though I'd used vampiric speed.

"I see from the water marks on the cement and your somewhat waterlogged appearance that you've disabled the boats," he observed.

"I tied the anchor chains together."

He pursed his lips and then laughed.

"Capital! That should put a crimp in Murphy's plans."

"Er, Holmes," I began.

He quirked an eyebrow at me so I continued.

"I also arranged for police to come to the pier."

I couldn't read the expression on his face so I blundered on.

"Olegson, the night watchman, was still here. I needed to give him something to do."

"Yes, I heard him at the door. I had quite a time of it keeping Cormac between me and Olegson's line of fire."

"You knew?"

Holmes shrugged. "Of course. If you hadn't returned I planned to step back to let him get a shot off and 'accidentally' fall onto Donelly, while taking out Cormac and Moran as I fell."

"Donelly?" I asked, thinking of the man whose name I didn't know, the man who'd come with Cormac and Moran to the warehouse moments ago.

"Yes, the mysterious Mr. Donelly who only showed up when the plan was about to come to fruition. Even more interesting, Murphy appears to be afraid of him."

"Who is he?"

"I think he's the link between Murphy and his masters. Just as Murphy is constantly keeping watch on his underlings, so his masters send watchers to keep an eye on him."

I thought of the other man who I'd overheard speaking to Murphy. He'd cast doubt on Michael O'Malley's ability to kill Jenny, and I wondered if he too had been sent to watch Murphy. How many watchers did they employ? The level of mistrust among criminals staggered the imagination.

"Shouldn't we be making our way towards the dock?"

"Ah," Holmes smiled. "You forget, my dear Cullen. I'm supposed to be tracking down a wounded warehouse owner. Besides, I'd rather not be there when the police show up. There's really nowhere to run to on a pier, and I'd just as soon not take a midnight swim as you did. By the way, where is the good Mr. Erikson?"

"Oh!" I realized I was neglecting the poor man. "He's on the roof."

"I think perhaps you'd best retrieve him. I'd like to be away from here when reinforcements arrive. I've arranged for some on the Canadian side, just in case, but while the Buffalo police force is admirable in its own way, they may tend to shoot first before realizing that we are on their side."

"Did you say 'Canadian side'?"

He nodded. "When I overheard that Murphy had arranged for boats with captains familiar with the Canadian shoreline, I knew he planned to cross the lake to Canada so I sent a telegram to one of Mycroft's associates there, asking that he alert the Canadian naval forces to step up their lake patrols. I was counting on you to ruin the weapons, and expecting that the Canadians would take Murphy's forces into custody. I slipped you the note hoping simply that you'd alert the authorities here and that Murphy would be trapped in a pincer movement from land and water. You, however, exceeded my expectations."

What did one say to a compliment from Holmes? I shrugged self deprecatingly.

"Well," Holmes said when it became obvious I wasn't going to respond beyond my embarrassed shrug, "Let the Buffalo police take the credit for taking down Murphy's gang. I only wish I knew more about where in Canada he planned to strike and why. I doubt Murphy will tell us. Now let's be off before 'Altamont' gets caught up in the police dragnet."

Erikson was half unconscious when I pulled him off the roof. It made my task a bit easier. The poor man was still in shock over not being dead. That and blood loss had conspired to cause a fainting spell, and since he was unconscious, Holmes allowed me to run him home.

The poor man hadn't eaten or slept in days due to worry over his daughter, and was unconscious for the entire trip. I deposited him in an unused guestroom in his mansion and left a brief note promising his reunion with his daughter, then left.

Out of curiosity, I detoured and ran down by the docks. It was a confused mess of paddywagons, policemen milling around, and woebegone Irishmen in restraints. There were also several bodies lying under blankets, useless rifles at their sides. My fault? Or theirs for trying to shoot at policemen? I left the conundrum for another time and ran on to my meeting point with Holmes.

He was waiting for me down in the alley by the restaurant. Dawn was nearing, and the lightening sky looked to be sunny.

"I won't be useful to you for long," I told him, gesturing up at the white tinge beginning to suffuse the horizon.

"My dear Cullen, you're always useful, and quite welcome in any capacity."

"I left a note for Erikson, to let him know that Jenny would be back soon."

Holmes made a humming sound. "As to that, it may be best if he and Mrs. Erikson take a sea voyage, with a certain young lady in the cabin next to them who is not registered as Jenny Erikson but under an alias instead. The sea air will likely do Mrs. Erikson a world of good, the presence of her daughter even more so. Murphy's gang thinks that O'Malley killed Jenny. O'Malley is in high standing with them, and if I need someone to vouch for me, he is the perfect choice. My job is not yet done here."

I cocked my head questioningly.

"Murphy's entire gang, save for Donelly, were either captured or killed tonight. Olegson has emerged as the hero of the hour. As the sole remaining member of the gang at large, Donelly will have to contact me to help rebuild Murphy's criminal enterprise. Either that or I may just see if some of those pigeons can help me send a message offering my services to the masterminds. Thwarting Murphy's plan was an unexpected bonus, but I need those pigeons to get in touch with my real goal, the men giving him his orders."

"The pigeons!" I listened, but heard nothing. "Wait here," I told Holmes, and jumped to the rooftop of the building I'd spent so many hours watching.

In the cages, pathetic little mounds of feathers lay silently, some with feet sticking up, others down on their sides, staring with sightless eyes. The rabbits jumped nervously about in their cages. They were fine. The pigeons, on the other hand…

I leapt back off the roof to land in front of Holmes.

"Dead. They're all dead," I told him. "I think it was poison." It had to have been, for there were no wounds. I would've smelled the blood right away.

Holmes took the news well, only a slight tightening of the muscles by his eyes showing what a blow it was to lose his only line of communication to the men he so desperately needed to find.

"There's no sense loitering around here then. Come, let's see what Mycroft's minion was able to discover in Canada."

We took Holmes' automobile to a small hotel in a quiet part of town. The clerk at the front desk held up a telegram when he caught sight of Holmes coming through the front door.

"Here, Sir. This came for you about an hour ago."

Holmes nodded his thanks and took it, drawing it and me aside to a pair of chairs near a grandfather clock. It ticked loudly in the empty space between the chairs. Apart from the clerk, Holmes, and I, no one else was in the lobby.

Sitting quickly, Holmes scanned the missive then looked up, eyes serious.

"It looks as though we've prevented quite a spectacle."

"What does it say?" I asked, nodding to the paper in his hand.

"Are you aware of the current political situation back home?"

"Not really," I admitted. "I read the London Times when I can get my hands on a copy of it, but the news is already out of date when I read it. My work at the hospital keeps me busy."

Holmes nodded his understanding. "Quite. Well, since you've been gone the Liberal Party has gained control of Parliament. Andrew Bonar-Law leads the opposition."

I knew that name. I searched my memory and it came to me. The newspaper Murphy's gang used to cover the window above the restaurant so no one could see into their hideout had mentioned Bonar-Law. As I recalled, the writer of the article held a dim view of Bonar-Law for opposing Irish Home Rule.

"Yes, I've heard of him."

Holmes smiled grimly. "The Conservative party is having a rough time of it. Now that the Labour Party has joined up with the Irish Nationalists promoting Home Rule, they hold the majority. Bonar-Law, as leader of the opposing side, is against Home Rule and must cater to the wishes of Ulster and the other protestant counties in Ireland who do not wish to separate from Britain since we, like they, are protestant as well."

"Ireland has ever been a sore issue," I observed. Irish politics always seemed to be fraught with violence and often justified resentment.

"Bonar-Law is, as you've no doubt surmised, a thorn in the flesh of the Irish Nationalists. He is in Canada now, the guest of Canada's Prime Minister, Robert Borden. Bonar-Law was born in Canada and while he, his sister, and his widowed father now live in the British Isles, his brothers still live in Canada. This morning Andrew Bonar-Law will be visiting the monument to British soldiers killed in the siege of Fort Erie in 1814. He was Murphy's target. Bonar-Law's death at the feet of a monument to British troops' bravery would send the message that opponents of Home Rule are not safe, even in the far reaches of the empire."

"But all those men, all those guns for one man?" It seemed excessive.

"You forget, Cullen. Murphy doesn't think like you. It wouldn't matter who he had to kill in addition to Bonar-Law so long as Bonar Law died. Aside from Bonar-Law, the Prime Minister was sending several underlings, and Bonar-Law's brothers and their families were to attend as well."

"Good Lord."

I thought of today's visit, a family outing, perhaps with children dashing around exploring the abandoned fort while their parents paid their respects to the soldiers who'd died there. Had Murphy succeeded, it would have been a bloodbath.

"Just so. Bonar-Law will never know how close he came to death, for Murphy will never talk, and Mycroft's men know how to keep a secret as well. Still, it wasn't bad for an evening's work, eh?"

I blinked at Holmes, amazed that he could find humor in the situation.

"But what of you? What of the masterminds behind Murphy's plan?"

Folding the telegram and placing it in his pocket, Holmes sighed.

"I'm back to where I started, waiting for them to notice and acknowledge me. There is something darker, and more sinister afoot than Irish rebels striking out at their enemies. Bonar-Law's death would destabilize the Conservative Party. The Home Rule bill is bound to pass eventually, so apart from its shock value, Bonar-Law's death would neither hinder nor promote Irish Home Rule. No, there's another motive for this crime, but I won't know it until I come face to face with the puppeteers pulling the strings."

Sitting quietly, I searched for an answer.

"Donelly is your only hope, then? Now that there are no birds left to send messages."

"It'll have to be Donelly," Holmes said, his expression turning grim. "He'll find me, or I'll have to find him."

"You'll do it Holmes, I have faith in you."

And I did have faith in him. In the long weeks that followed I returned to my practice in the hospital, shamefacedly accepting the condolences of my coworkers for my mother's supposed demise. My real mother had been gone centuries, but I was touched by their genuine commiseration and support.

Two months later I found a large envelope shoved under the door to my flat when I returned home from work one morning. In it was a copy of a postcard from Sweden addressed to Olegson from Erikson, his wife, and daughter asking him to continue to look after the business in Buffalo for a little while longer while they visited relatives. There was another hand copied postcard addressed to Altamont from Mr. and Mrs. Michael O'Malley from Prince Edward Island in Canada, thanking him for finding Michael a job there. Last of all was a brief handwritten note.

There were five words on it.

"Donnelly found me. Regards, Altamont."

Holmes was on the case again.

THE END

A/N: If you really want to know what happened to Holmes after this story, read Arthur Conan Doyle's short story entitled: His Last Bow. You can find it online at the Sherlockian dot net website. On the top left corner of the website's menu there's a link to all the original Arthur Conan Doyle stories that can be found online. It's an excellent resource for anyone wanting a quick Sherlock Holmes mystery fix.


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